


Life After Grief

by Misdemeanor1331



Series: Life After [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Collier's Virus is highly contagious, magically virulent, and always fatal. Junior Healers Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are called in to help find a cure before the virus claims another life. If they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My beta was the wonderful Dayang Lucilla! Thank you!! Any remaining errors are entirely my own.
> 
> I have to add some additional warnings for licenses taken with wizarding (and Muggle) Healing methods, some medical terminology, and the use of hypodermic needles.

Though it looked abandoned from the outside, St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was never unoccupied. The reception area could hold thirty people comfortably, fifty uncomfortably, and about twice that if the Welcome Witch deigned to magically expand the space. She did so rarely, claiming, when questioned by her superiors, that a crowded waiting room was far more motivation for the Healers to see people than an empty room. There were never any studies done to support this claim, and nor would there be, for the plump blonde witch harangued to the point of exasperation anyone who tried.

The areas beyond reception were generally less crowded and more frantic, though how much more frantic depended on the floor. In the Janus Thickey Ward on the Fourth Floor, for instance, there was relatively little activity. Healers delivered meals to the long-term residents and occasionally guided those who had wandered away back to their beds. It was calm, routine work; most Healers who were on in their years chose to transfer there as a stepping-stone into retirement.

But younger Healers – the best and brightest the wizarding world had to offer – did not want routine work. Nor did they want calm. Draco Malfoy didn’t, at least. At the tender age of twenty-five, Draco had very firm ideas about what he wanted indeed: a permanent position at St Mungo’s as a Healer on the Third-Floor, a contractual research position at St Mungo’s as a Researcher with a focus on Potions (both poisons and cures), and one date – _one bloody date_ – with Hermione Granger.

The first was practically guaranteed. Draco was in his fourth and final year of St Mungo’s residency program. His exams scores from Hippocrates’ School for the Healing Arts all fell within the ninety-sixth percentile, which was extremely impressive. He had worked in all of St Mungo’s several departments for at least two months each and had received glowing recommendations from all of his Attending Healers except one, who was simply bitter because Draco had run an unapproved test that had saved the patient’s life. His patients admired him not only for his brains and ability to heal, but also for his congenial bedside manner. He mentored incoming Juniors, and they held him in such high regard that, on particularly good days, Draco was sure St Mungo’s couldn’t afford _not_ to keep him.

The research position was a bit more tenuous. The ancient Department Head for the Third Floor, Anastas Reyes, was notoriously exacting. The most famous of his students was Damocles, who had invented the Wolfsbane Potion. Quickly approaching Damocles in fame was his last apprentice, Epilane Stubble. Stubble had invented a cure for androgenic alopecia – male pattern baldness to everyone not in the Healing field – and was making a fortune selling it to both wizards and Muggles alike. That was seven years ago.

The competition to become Reyes’ next tyro was fierce, but Draco was well prepared. Despite what the Gryffindors might have said, Professor Snape had never shown Draco an ounce of leniency when it came to the quality of his finished potions. In fact, he was probably _less_ lenient. The benchmark Snape set was perfection, and Draco had melted countless cauldrons trying to achieve it.

The memory of Snape breathing down his neck as he quizzed Draco’s knowledge of Potions theory over the summer made his heart clench. His godfather may have been a hard-nosed bastard, but Draco would not have wanted it any other way. Severity was Snape’s way of acknowledging Draco’s potential. It was his way of caring.

Not everyone understood that. Hermione certainly didn’t. She seemed to think that _caring_ should be someone’s way of caring, and it was his frustration at being constantly rebuffed by her which prompted him to change tactics. The shift from relentless to relenting was what finally earned him Hermione as a friend. His current struggle was how to take her from _friend-who-was-a-girl_ to the more official and far more gratifying _girlfriend_. Nearly a half a year of failure made him wonder if it could be done at all.

The thought made him sigh as he carefully navigated the crowded halls of the Second Floor: Magical Bugs. Healers, Juniors, Techs, and Trainees flowed down the hall like traffic on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Though everyone walked at different speeds, cut sharply around corners, pushed gurneys and equipment-loaded carts, or swerved into rooms with absolutely no warning, there were relatively few collisions. When they did happen, the offenders shrugged it off, waved a quick apology, and got back to their business.

Draco supposed it was due to the color of their robes. Certified Healers wore lime green; Juniors, like himself and Hermione, wore a pleasant shamrock color; Techs, who usually never came out of their laboratories, wore dark pine; Trainees, who were still in school, wore an unattractive shade of olive, which was meant to build character. That was the pecking order – lime, shamrock, pine, olive – and all respected it. Department Heads generally wore whatever robes they wanted, though most chose a modern cut of navy, black, or grey. It was rare to see a robe of that color moving about the hallway unless there was trouble.

As there were no dark robes on the floor this morning, Draco continued his stroll. He calmly skirted a Trainee who looked to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown, dodged a team of Healers transporting a wailing child, and spun around a cluster of Techs who stood, rather inconveniently, in the middle of the hallway looking at a dark brown insect the size of his fist. He wordlessly joined the clump of shamrock that was grouped around a pillar of lime green at the end of the hallway.

“Not much new in today, team,” said Healer Augustus Renout, giving Draco a slight nod. He took his usual position behind Hermione, gently touching her waist to let her know that he’d arrived. Her body flinched at the unexpected contact, then relaxed. She inclined her head toward him slightly, but did not take her eyes from Renout. Draco smiled: he had felt like he had a lot to prove when he had first started here, too. She would calm down eventually. Maybe after year one.

“A woman with vanishing sickness!”

“Mine!” A well-manicured hand shot past Hermione’s ear and snatched the proffered clipboard. Hermione huffed, and Draco’s smile widened as the curvy, raven-haired witch turned on her heel and winked at him before striding away. _Theresa_. Her flirting with Draco annoyed Hermione; naturally, Draco played it up whenever he could. He felt more than saw her scowling glare and couldn’t help but grin.

“She should be in Room Twelve,” shouted Renout to Theresa’s retreating form, “but she hasn’t been seen recently! Finally, we have an eighty-year-old man with dragon pox in the George Giles Quarantine Ward, Room Two. Severe case. Seems to be confined to his genitals.”

“I’ll take it!” shouted Hermione.

“Mine,” Draco said simultaneously.

Hermione’s brown eyes flashed as she glared at him, but Draco kept his gaze on Renout, fighting the smirk that threatened to quirk his lips. Renout looked between them.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, pointing the clipboard at Hermione.

She hesitated before answering, begrudgingly, “Twenty hours.”

The clipboard shifted to Draco’s chest. “You?”

“Twelve.”

Renout handed the clipboard to Draco as Hermione gasped and spluttered. “I’ll be in my office if you need me, Malfoy. And Granger? Go home. Get some sleep, for Agrippa’s sake.”

Draco waited until Renout turned the corner, then tapped the clipboard lightly against his palm and finally looked at Hermione, giving her the most self-satisfied smirk he could muster. She gaped, and he turned away from her to head to the Quarantine Ward. Hermione was at his elbow instantly.

“We arrived at the same time this morning,” she hissed.

“ _Yesterday_ morning,” he corrected quietly.

She ignored him. “You _lied_.”

“And I got the case.”

“I _need_ it.”

He stopped and hit her with a challenging look. “And I _have_ it.”

Color rose high on both her cheeks as she grabbed his arm and dragged him across the hall, miraculously sliding past the growing group of excited Techs and an anxious-looking set of parents. She shoved him into the supply closet, and closed, locked, and soundproofed it with a neat series of wandless spells.

The clipboard clattered to the floor as she flew into his arms, her lips colliding with his in a passionate, almost violent kiss.

Her kiss changed everything, turned every logical thought in his head helter-skelter, and reoriented him completely toward her.

Though his attempts to win Hermione’s heart had so far failed, his attempts to satisfy her lust certainly had not. She had started their physical relationship, and Draco had been hesitant about it at first. Then she began dragging him into supply closets, across desks, against walls, and behind bookshelves, and Draco had had a revelation: physically, she was just as addicted to him as he was to her. For now, that was enough to keep his hope alive.

And when her hands roamed his body, it was hard to imagine why he’d ever give it up. She was all warmth and fire, confident and controlling, a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to get it. Draco loved it, loved _her_ , and grabbed her hips, pulling her close, losing himself in the feel of her curves beneath his fingers. He backed her into a set of shelves, reveling in her gasp of laughter as bright pink exam gowns and stacks of disposable towels fluttered down around them.

He swallowed her gasp in a kiss, and she reciprocated, burying her fingers in his hair and tugging him closer. He grunted at the pain that was really pleasure and opened her robe with a flick of his nimble fingers. Then he was at the hem of her skirt, hiking it upwards over her hips. She shimmied out of her knickers, never breaking their kiss. She got them as low as her knees before Draco grew impatient.

“Sod it,” he muttered against her lips. He ripped her knickers apart with a firm yank.

She cursed him and nipped his bottom lip hard, then cupped him through his clothes. He pressed himself into her hand with a moan. He used the shelf to steady himself as she moved aside his robes and unbuttoned his trousers. Then he was free, nearly carried away into ecstasy by the touch of her hand on his cock.

But he knew how much better it could be. In a swift, practiced movement, he scooped her up and she spread her legs, wrapping them around his waist. He took a moment to position himself and then, with a smooth, hard thrust, was inside her. He allowed himself ten seconds – ten seconds to bask in the feeling of utter serenity that came with being surrounded by what he loved most. Then she whimpered with need, shifted her hips, and Draco could no longer deny her. His thrusts were short, but deep, and soon she bucked and writhed, crying out his name and clutching at his shoulders, holding herself to him tightly, as if afraid he was going to let go.

He never intended to.

If she never asked him to, he never would.

His own release surged through him, the force of it nearly bringing him to his knees. He braced himself against her and tried to remember how to breathe, which was easy when surrounded by the smell of their sex: musky, and wet, and sweet with a hint of citrus. He sometimes had a mad desire to bottle it.

“That’s four for you this week,” he muttered against her neck, punctuating his sentence with several small kisses.

“You’re losing ground,” she whispered back. She captured his earlobe between her lips and sucked. He shivered, and Hermione squeezed her thighs against his hips. She loved that shiver. Draco chuckled.

“Two’s not so far behind,” he replied with a nip, “and the week’s not over yet.”

She moaned softly as his lips moved over her collarbone and toward the rising slope of her breasts.

“And what if I told you that I plan to get you at least once more today?”

He smiled and kissed her lips. “Then I would tell you that I’m a very lucky man.”

“I’d say.”

Draco’s heart swelled. He was lucky, yes, but she was lucky, too. He was intelligent and motivated; a decent man, now that he’d put his past behind him. How could she not see what they could be together? How could she not understand what they could share?

“Have dinner with me.” He nuzzled her cheek with his nose. “Please.”

He felt her answer before she spoke. _No_ was in the tension of her back, the pace of her breathing, and the shift of her hips. But Draco was persistent: he would not stop until she said the dreaded word aloud. He swallowed a sigh and pulled out of her, setting her down gently. He did not let go of her until he was sure she had found her footing.

“We eat together in the cafeteria all the time,” she said mildly.

“A _real_ dinner,” he said patiently, twining one of her curls around his finger. “We’ll both take off early for once. You’ll put on a dress. I’ll wear a tie. There’s a new place in Diagon Alley. Pansy recommended it. Raw food. Fish, or something.”

“Sushi?”

He tugged gently on the curl. “I’d love to. I’ll Floo over Friday at seven.”

She removed his hand from her hair and brought it down to his side. Her fingers lingered for only a moment.

“That wasn’t a yes,” she said quietly, unable to maintain eye contact. Her evasiveness annoyed him, and he took a step closer, forcing her to abandon the search for her shredded knickers and look at him.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t.”

“You _should_.”

“Explain it to me.”

She glared again, sighed, crossed her arms, tapped her foot, bit her lip, but Draco ignored her peevishness. Her touch no longer intoxicated him. The smell and taste of her no longer addled his pheromone-sensitive brain. With this libido sated, Draco finally felt like he could _think_ , and the evidence against her desire for something more once again presented itself. It was time for her to confirm his suspicions, and for him to counter them as best he could.

She began with the most obvious argument: “I don’t date coworkers.”

“We aren’t coworkers,” he parried quickly.

“We _are_ ,” she said, as if it were obvious. “We have the same Attending. We’re on the same floor.”

“We won’t be in three months. I’m almost finished.”

She rolled her eyes. “And then I’ll be dating a superior.”

“When you _do_ cycle onto the Third Floor, I’ll make sure you’re assigned to another Healer to avoid a conflict of interest. They won’t assign me residents my first year, anyway. Besides, we’ll never work together. We’ve chosen –”

“Different specialties don’t count. It’s still the same location.”

“Different floors.”

“ _Same location_ ,” she repeated sternly. “If things went sour between us –”

“They won’t.”

“And if they do?”

“They _won’t_.”

“Draco, please.” She took his hand, and he wavered. Why did her eyes have to shine so brightly? Did she even realize the power of her frown? Probably not – she used it so rarely. He much preferred her smile. “We’ve been friends for years,” she continued. “I don’t want to lose that because of a failed experiment.”

“Didn’t this _start_ as an experiment?” he asked bitterly, gesturing to the supply closet and their discarded clothes.

“Would you call it a failure?” Her voice was low, recalling the intimacy they had shared mere minutes ago. Draco forced himself to look away from her. They had not been the only people in their graduating class who had chosen to pursue Healing, but they were the only two who had been accepted into Hippocrates’ School, which was very small, very selective, and very secluded on a small, Unplottable island south of Wales. Draco’s infamy further isolated him, which was fine. The last thing he wanted was attention. Hermione’s fame pulled people to her, but she wanted the attention no more than he did. By the end of their first term, she was just as alone as he was.

Whether it was their shared classes or their shared history that brought them together, Draco couldn’t say. Nor was he entirely sure if she sought him out or vice versa. But it happened. They sat together in class, exchanged notes, shared meals, gravitated toward each other as if it were natural, unavoidable. She opened up to him, and he learned that there was more to her than just intelligence and morality lectures.

They graduated Hippocrates’ School and split up before he could work up the courage to do anything about it. Then she told him that she was coming to St Mungo’s, and Draco felt as if he’d been given a second chance. He began his pursuit of her the month after she started. Five months later and he had nothing to show for all his hard work except for the addition of casual sex in any unoccupied space they could find. It was wonderful, to be sure, but something about her only using him to scratch an itch unsettled him. It made him feel weirdly cheap. Moreover, it was not at all how a Malfoy man should go about courting a woman. Though Draco had a feeling that none of the women courted by _any_ Malfoy man had been as stubborn as his was.

He studied her face: her earnest eyes, her pert nose, her slightly furrowed eyebrows, her endearing freckles... Then, a thought occurred:

Was she stubborn, or was he delusional?

It was a sobering idea. One that left him feeling slightly nauseous and not at all like himself.

Maybe he was being a fool.

Maybe it was time for him to let go.

“I won’t wait for you forever.” His voice shook with the effort it took to admit, and he thought she might have noticed the undercurrent of fear.

Hermione’s hand on his cheek brought him back to reality, back to her. “I wasn’t asking you to,” she said softly.

That settled it. Draco grimaced, dropped her hand, and stepped away from her. It was time to pull away. He looked away from her guilty expression, ignored the pity in her eyes, and focused on pulling up his trousers and straightening his robe. She repaired her knickers, fixed her skirt, and picked up the hastily discarded clipboard. She held it between them as if nothing had transpired since they entered the closet.

“I want this case.”

His recent epiphany and her prim, businesslike tone did not inspire him to be generous. “You’ve taken dragon pox cases before,” he said mildly, taking the clipboard. He tugged it toward him; she did not let go.

“Not one like this.”

“Not one concerning the genitalia of an old wizard, you mean? Since when were you interested in older men?”

She sneered, but otherwise ignored the jibe. “What I’m interested in is obtaining a sample –”

“Ah,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Of course. Your _collection_.”

“My _library_ ,” she snapped. “Dragon pox is relaxed to a deadly Muggle virus called smallpox. A virus that they’ve nearly _eradicated_ in developed countries. If I could do the same with dragon pox –”

“You’d make millions and retire to Bora Bora?”

“I’d be doing the wizarding world an incredible service,” she said testily. She yanked the clipboard out of his hands. “Besides, I need to participate in a differential diagnosis.”

“You’ve done that already.”

“And that’s all one needs to become a certified Healer?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Since when?”

“Well, considering the Healing you’ll be doing…”

Her mouth dropped open, and she shoved the clipboard at his chest violently, sending him back a step. Her eyes sparked in indignation, and Draco smirked.

Hermione had done just as well at Hippocrates’ School as Draco had. Better in many classes, actually, and she should have been finishing her residency with him. Instead, she had deferred her time at St Mungo’s in favor of spending three years at a Muggle hospital in London. He had scorned her decision, derided her for it, prophesied that it would be the end of her career, that St Mungo’s would never accept her after such a long absence from wizarding technology.

She had explained to him that a residency in a Muggle hospital would provide the best foundation for the combination of Magical and Muggle Healing she wanted to attempt. He had called her an idealistic idiot, questioned her ability as a witch, and wondered how she had been fooling everyone for so long.

Then she hit him with the second most severe hex he’d ever experienced. It had shut him up – he wasn’t able to do much more than moan and puke for three days – but it had not changed his opinion. It only changed how vocal he was about it. His insult to her now was undeserved, but it was suddenly more satisfying to be rotten to her than to be kind.

“My focus on _Integrative Healing_ does not make me any less of a Healer,” she seethed, “and you would do well to remember it.”

Draco sneered. “Whatever.”

She mirrored his expression. “Are you going to give me this case or not?”

“It’s negotiable,” he answered tersely.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, then their negotiations began. “There’s a child in Room Thirty who may have the Flux.”

“ _May_ have?” he asked incredulously. Hermione crossed her arms and waited for him to figure it out.

The Magician’s Flux was a rare but severe degenerative disease that appeared randomly and progressed quickly. First, it attacked the victim’s body by preventing nutrient absorption, which decreased organ and motor function. Though it was frightening, most patients survived that initial stage. Treatment for organ failure was, relatively speaking, simple, almost to the point of being routine. Things became more difficult when the Flux progressed into its second stage and began draining the victim’s magic. For this, there was no treatment and no chance of reversal. If they caught it in time and began therapy, they could slow the Flux’s progression. But in order to diagnose it…

Draco’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp with excitement. “He hasn’t shown any magical abilities yet.”

“Nothing substantial,” she confirmed.

“Then how do you know it’s the Flux? You can’t measure the disappearance of something that hasn’t appeared yet.”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’ve run every other diagnostic test I can think of and they’ve all come back negative.”

“Did you run them again?”

“Of course I did,” she sniffed, affronted. “All negative.”

Draco furrowed his brow. The case sounded fascinating, certainly. Flux in a child was almost unheard of. If left untreated, the child would have less magic than a Squib. If he could diagnose it…

Hermione spoke suddenly. “Mrs Clowe.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. Mrs Maud Clowe was an elderly patient who was slowly losing kidney function. She had been a point of contention between him and Hermione ever since she was admitted. “What of her?” he asked carefully.

“She’s… She’s refusing treatment.”

If he had been feeling irritable before, this information made him downright angry. He rolled his eyes. “Why?” he snapped.

“It’s her right,” Hermione answered mildly.

“Did you explain the treatment fully?”

She bristled. “ _Yes_.”

Draco frowned and crossed his arms before his chest. A patient’s right to refuse potentially life-saving treatment had not bothered him until the first time it had happened. Mr Esmain Tate, ninety-three years old, was suffering from a fungal infection in his lungs. The antifungal they wanted to give him had nasty side effects – blindness, migraines, heart attack, stroke – but it would cure him. Draco had spent an entire hour at the patient’s bedside explaining the treatment and making sure Tate understood. When he refused with no more explanation than, “I don’t want to,” Draco had nearly lost it, only avoiding embarrassment because his Attending had pulled him out of the room.

He had since learned to better control himself, but the right to refuse treatment still gave him trouble. He could not comprehend the decision to give up on life, no matter how draining the proposed treatment may be.

And Hermione knew it.

He regarded her shrewdly, mulling over his options. He hated to give Hermione her way, but possibly diagnosing a boy with the Flux and the chance to change Mrs Clowe’s mind were too tempting to resist. He handed her the clipboard, which she took with a smug smile. She brought it to her chest protectively and unlocked the door.

“I’ll catch you for lunch,” she said over her shoulder, her hand poised on the knob.

“You have to go home, remember? Healer’s orders.” He reached around her and pushed open the door as she looked back at him and grimaced. Then she turned around and stepped into the hallway, immediately and literally running into a black-robed someone. Draco recognized her as she stumbled forward, catching herself on the wall. It was the Department Head of the Second Floor, Regina Whyte.

The clipboard clattered to the floor once again.

“Oh, Healer Whyte, I’m so sorry,” Hermione jabbered as she bent down to retrieve her hard-won assignment.

“No, please.” Whyte stooped down as well. “My fault, really.”

Whyte reached the clipboard first and stood, handing it back to Hermione. Her eyes paused on Hermione’s tangled hair and puffy lips, then drifted to the small, pink bite marks on Draco’s neck.

“Just the pair I wanted to _catch_ ,” Regina said with a sly smile. Hermione flushed scarlet and subtly tried to button her robes. She sent Draco a panicked glance from the corner of her eyes, which he ignored. Instead, he met Regina’s gaze with a smile of his own, a smile that was far too close to laughing for Hermione’s comfort, as evidenced by her wide eyes and clenched jaw. But let her be angry. He had nothing to do with her happiness anymore.

“Something my _partner_ and I can help you with?”

Whyte allowed herself a final grin, then dropped the expression, at once professional. “Find Renout and hand over your cases. You’ve both been reassigned.”

“Reassigned?” Hermione shot Draco a questioning look, but he just shook his head. Reassignments were rare for any Healer, and they were almost unheard of for first-year residents unless there was a question of ethics.

“Male, forty-seven years old. Quarantine Ward, Room Four. Admitted nearly six hours ago with muscle weakness and palsy. We ran his blood through the Diagnostic Wand. We found Collier’s antibodies.”

Draco hissed through his teeth. Hermione gasped.

“Stage three!”

“Your job is to find a cure before it becomes stage four,” said Whyte. “Go.”

Draco did not wait for her to ask again and grabbed Hermione’s arm, tugging her along with him. He could tell by her stumbling steps that her processing speed had stalled.

“Why us?” she muttered, perhaps rhetorically.

“Why _you_ , more like,” Draco corrected, not giving a damn. “If they want a cure, a potion is a logical first step.”

“But people have been working on a cure for Collier’s for… For _months_ now. Unless you’re some sort of prodigy…”

“Who says I’m not?”

“And me…” she continued, clearly not listening to him. “I’m only in my first year –”

“Though you could’ve had all the practical experience of a fourth-year by now…”

She stopped in her tracks, jerking him backwards slightly. “I do,” she said. Her eyes were wide with realization. “My work at Guy’s and St Thomas’. They must have considered that. They must be –”

“Desperate,” Draco finished for her. Whatever the amount of Muggle experience she had, there was no substitute for what St Mungo’s could teach. There was no reason for her – a first-year Junior – to be taken off solid, educational cases and reassigned to a highly theoretical, highly complex, epidemic-level disease. Hermione flushed, but did not argue. Draco resumed guiding her toward Renout’s office.

Draco quickly explained their situation when they arrived. Renout did not look happy (he rarely did) and gave Hermione an extra-long glare for still being at the hospital. Nevertheless, he took their cases without complaint and dismissed them with a wave. Draco turned them and began toward the Quarantine Ward.

“You can let go of me now,” she said quietly, glancing up at him.

He met her gaze and frowned. “I’d rather not.” He would not tell her that she was the only thing keeping him from running full-tilt toward the ward.

The reason for Hermione’s reassignment may have been a mystery, but Draco knew why they wanted him: this case was a test. Never mind finding a cure for Collier’s; it was highly unlikely that he’d be able to manage such a thing, especially within such a short period. But if he comported himself well, came up with a few good theories, and showed some effort? This could very well be his trial run for the apprenticeship with Reyes. Draco intended to prove every bit of his worth.

They reached the entrance to the Quarantine Ward, and Draco finally let Hermione go. She pressed her wandtip to the scanner at the threshold, which _ding_ ed and parted with a hiss. It was open just long enough for her to hustle through. He squinted as a bright orange Sanitizing Ray passed over her from every conceivable angle, then the second airtight door opened, and she was through. Draco repeated the process for himself, and soon joined Hermione on the other side.

Maurice Stockell, Attending Healer of the Quarantine Ward, waited for them there. He was an older man with graying hair and orange-tinted skin that clashed terribly with his lime green robes. There were several theories as to why he had turned orange, premier among them that he had simply passed through the ward’s Sanitizing Ray and AntiContagion Shields too often for his skin to handle. He was being monitored for side effects of this discoloration, but was usually in a good mood despite it. His expression now, however, was grim. The sight was distinctly jarring.

“That was quick,” he noted.

“Regina caught us,” said Draco. Hermione huffed at the double entendre.

“Good.” He nodded curtly and began leading them down the hall. Draco craned his head as they passed the room of the man with the genital dragon pox. Hermione scoffed, but arched an inquisitive eyebrow at him nonetheless. Draco shook his head: he hadn’t seen anything.

“This is the fiftieth case in three months,” said Stockell, drawing their attention back to him. “We’re no closer to finding a damn cure, and if it spreads much further, the Wizarding Health Organization will upgrade it from epidemic to pandemic. I think it’s safe to say we’re out of our depth here.”

“And you think it is within ours?” asked Hermione.

Stockell glanced back at her, his lips pursed at her gentle impertinence. “I think that when every _expert_ is out of ideas, you look to those who are less involved. _Perspective_. That is what fuels discovery. I assume you’re both familiar with Collier’s?”

They nodded.

“Enlighten me,” he said, gesturing for them to begin.

Hermione spoke first, as was tradition. “It’s a virus,” she said quickly. “Highly contagious through bodily fluids, most notably blood, saliva, and semen. There may be a short period of dormancy for some infected, but once the symptoms begin, it has a very consistent progression.”

“Antibodies are present in the blood as soon as one hour post-infection,” Draco cut in. His voice was even and measured, as if he were reading from a text instead of reciting from memory. “By the end of the first week, the patient will experience flu-like symptoms: nausea, vomiting, which is sometimes severe, body aches, fever, chills, and occasionally light sensitivity. By ten days, most of the symptoms disappear except for the body aches. Those get worse. As week two ends, muscle control begins to fade. The patient will experience weakness and palsy.”

“This is typically when we see it,” said Hermione, shooting Draco an apologetic glance. “People rarely go to the hospital for a simple flu.”

“Right,” said Draco. “Near the end of week three, the beginning of week four for some, motor function disappears. Paralysis moves inward after that, eventually reaching the lungs. By twenty-eight days, lung function ceases. Death occurs by asphyxiation.”

He stopped at the entrance of room four, the tip of his wand hovering over the ACS scanner. “And?”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a confused look; Stockell grimaced and pressed his wand to the scanner.

“Guess you’ll see in a moment,” he muttered. The second airlock hissed open, and he disappeared within it.

“What do you think he meant?” Hermione asked, turning to him.

Draco shrugged. “Not a clue.” The light above the airlock turned green, and Draco swept an arm out in front of him. “Ladies first.”

Hermione disappeared, too, and in a moment, it was Draco’s turn. He stepped into the airlock, wincing as a thin veil of orange slid over the visible world. It oozed quickly over the rest of his body, coating his lips and chin, his chest and arms, all the way down to his feet. He spread and flexed his fingers, and the orange barrier moved with them. It felt slippery, like the skin of a fish, and Draco shuddered; the sensation unsettled him.

His discomfort doubled when he saw the patient.

“Who is he?” Hermione asked. She sounded much more composed than he felt.

“Robert Friska,” said Stockell. “Forty-seven, married, two children, ages nine and fourteen. Works in a small café in London. Muggle-born.”

“Café?” Hermione shot a panicked look to Draco and Stockell. “He could’ve infected others. Have you sent out a notice? Contacted the Ministry?”

“I’ll be sending an owl as soon as you two are settled.”

“What’s…” Draco cleared his throat and tried to sound more self-assured. “What is all this?”

“This is what makes Collier’s so famous and so feared within the Healing community.”

Typical St Mungo’s patients, though sick, were still allowed to move around with relative freedom. Friska did not look like he was moving anywhere soon. A needle had been inserted into his arm, and a long, clear tube tethered him to a wheeled intravenous drip. Another tube rested just below his nose, supplying him with a low-velocity flow of pure oxygen. He was thin, pale, and unconscious, though the last was certainly understandable: the stress of being stuck with Muggle equipment was probably too much for any non-Healer (and many certified Healers) to bear while awake.

“Selective magical immunity,” said Stockell seriously.

Draco tore his eyes from patient to Healer. “That’s not in any of the literature.”

“Can you imagine the panic it would cause if this were widely known? The virus itself is magical. It has its own defenses. I’ve even heard them called _wards_. Any magic that interferes with the virus’ lifecycle is blocked, including our standard Healing spells.”

“That’s why you’ve had to use Muggle equipment,” Hermione said.

Stockell nodded. “I had to call in an actual doctor to assist. It’s fortunate that Stupefy still works. It’s not how we’d like to treat them, but it’s easier than trying to insert the needles while they’re awake.”

Draco grimaced at the thought, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Draco dismissed her reaction: she was accustomed to the butchery Muggles called 'Healing'. He wasn’t, and thought it natural that he should be fascinated and a bit frightened by it. He looked forward to arguing about it with her later.

Stockell twisted his wrist and pulled two thick folios out of the air. He handed one each to Hermione and Draco. “This is the disease history of Collier’s, as well as Friska’s patient history. My focus is on symptom management and patient comfort. Your responsibility is to find a way to subvert the virus’ defenses and find a cure. There are samples for you in the refrigerator.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I can collect more if you need them. You have approximately a week. Good luck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Draco was sure that if he stared at his cauldron for another minute, he’d go insane. The same went for the folio Stockell had given him, the research notebook he’d spent a day and a half filling with every idea and theory that crossed his mind, good or bad, his dwindling stock of potion ingredients, and the small collection of vials which were each filled with a potential cure in every shade of yellow imaginable.

He hadn’t slept for nearly two days, instead spending his time preparing cures. The initial tests he’d run on Friska’s infected cell samples looked promising. Nevertheless, Draco knew each one was a failure.

Probably.

In the beginning stages of research, it was rare to see _any_ results, no matter how well the researcher understood the theory behind the method. Processes needed tweaking, variables needed to be accounted for, changing circumstances needed to be adapted to. Yet here he was, an uncertified Healer, succeeding where greater minds before him had failed. On his first attempts, no less. It left a nasty feeling in his gut and a cynical twist on his lips.

Then his stomach growled. Maybe that nasty feeling was something else. Hunger, dehydration, exhaustion, lack of human contact for two full days… The Techs called it ‘lab madness,’ and there were two known cures: ignore it and keep working, or get out of the laboratory.

Draco unquestionably needed out, which was probably part of the reason he didn’t understand the Techs.

He placed a Stasis charm on his cauldron, stood quickly, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The sudden change in body orientation caused his blood to rush to his legs, blackening his vision and making him teeter. He grabbed hold of the edge of the desk and closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose and walking himself through the diagnosis.

This was simply orthostatic hypotension due to hypovolemia. A head rush, in layman’s terms. Any moment now, his baroreceptor reflex would activate, his heart rate would increase, and his vision and balance would return to normal.

It happened as he thought it, and, as expected, he was fine. He made it to his desk, drank a few glasses of water, and munched on a Chocolate Frog. Stretching his legs felt like just what he needed to clear his head. He grabbed another Frog and headed to the staircase, not realizing where he was going until he reached the door marked ‘B’.

He grimaced. The Basement was the only floor not listed on St Mungo’s floor directory, and was therefore the hospital’s best kept secret. Hermione worked down here, too. Visiting her completely undermined his plan to pull away. But Draco was no stranger to self-sabotage, and he was through the door before his sanity could offer him a better suggestion.

The Basement was a small floor – a single hallway, which was downright miniscule compared to the warren of wards and wings on the other levels. Near the stairwell on the right side was the entrance to Hermione’s laboratory. He let himself in and was surprised to find it empty. He dithered for a few minutes anyway, enjoying the temperature-controlled, thrice-filtered air. The smell of nothing after being submerged in the odors of the sick (defecation, blood, and ammonia), the healing (antiseptic, perfume, and flowers), and the funk of his own laboratory (sulfur, chlorophyll, and, strangely, buttered toast) was a relief.

He ghosted his fingers over the controls of her Muggle equipment, curious but not willing to risk her fury if he accidentally switched a setting or two. He thought he could run them without any major malfunctions; he was reasonably intelligent, after all. However, his very limited experience with Muggle technology – a nearly catastrophic experience involving tinfoil and a cooking box called a _microwave_ – had taught him that it could be both unpredictable and counter-intuitive. He had no desire to experiment on much more expensive and sensitive machines.

Farther down the hallway, also on the right, was the Research Library. It was Hermione’s second favorite place, after her laboratory. It was very much like the Hogwarts Library, with one exception: no Madame Pince. In her place was a Reference Desk. All one had to do was scribble a subject, title, author, or question onto a signed piece of parchment and slip it into a slot atop the desk. It was a simple enough protocol, and everyone approached the desk with high hopes of success.

Unfortunately, the desk was as old as the hospital itself and as temperamental as Pince during exam week. If one’s writing was not precise enough, the Desk may read the request incorrectly and inundate the requestor with irrelevant texts. If one’s question were too vague or too specific, same problem. Merlin forbid if the requestor made a spelling error. Worse still was if the request was dropped into the slot a bit too forcefully. Sometimes, the Desk would spit it right back out and refuse to accept it until the requestor submitted an apology. Other times, it would get ‘lost’, and then the request was never fulfilled.

Draco had had several such issues with the desk and gave it a wide berth, searching for Hermione within the stacks and at her favorite corner table. She was not there, either. Draco highly doubted Hermione would be hiding in the Morgue, so he resigned himself to visiting the last of the four Basement rooms.

To the left of the stairwell, across the hall from Hermione’s laboratory, was the entrance to the Alternative Research Alley. The Alley was as small, dark, and obscure as its namesake. Draco did not like visiting.

Hermione’s office occupied a mere quarter of the Alley. Another quarter was dedicated to a common area, which was crowded with a coffee pot, a dented kettle, a threadbare, wretchedly uncomfortable futon upon which Hermione spent about half of her evenings, and an ancient wireless radio that either picked up white noise or Russian chamber music.

The other half of the Alley was devoted to an old married pair named Renata and Alfredo Renaldo, who studied the healing powers of Astronomy and Divination, respectively. Their work was largely theoretical; Draco could count on one hand how often either had set foot in the lab. He didn’t need any hands to track how often those visits had been work-related.

He nodded politely to the couple as he passed. Renata nodded back at him with wide eyes. Alfredo stared impassively for a moment, then consulted the crystal ball before him. He giggled maniacally as Draco closed the door that separated their offices.

He took a seat in Hermione’s chair and reclined as far as the old supports would allow. Her office was so different from his. Her desk was a disaster. He could barely see the polished wood below piles of Muggle notebooks, pyramids of scrolls, several framed pictures of her friends, family, and cat, and coffee mugs that needed to be cleaned. A bundle of dried roses (a birthday gift from Potter – Draco was miffed he hadn’t thought of it first) hung upside down beside her door. A landscape painting of a vast, sunlit meadow hung on the one wall that wasn’t covered with scribbled reminders and scholarly articles she’d found interesting. When she was feeling particularly stressed, she expanded the painting and stared at it. He’d often joined her at it at Hippocrates’ School; it had worked better than he expected.

Draco sometimes wished his space had the personality Hermione’s did. His walls were bare, his desk Spartan, and his research neatly filed away out of sight. Hermione often remarked that it was a good thing they had never roomed together, for she would have surely driven him mad, but Draco had seen her bedroom once before and knew that her living space was kept just as meticulously as his was. Any place she spent a significant amount of time was tidy. Her laboratory was proof of that.

In fact, Draco was quite confident that they could cohabitate very well. Convincing her of that was another matter entirely. Not like he cared any more. Because he didn’t. Before he could examine just how thorough his apathy was, the woman herself stumbled out of the Floo, bringing with her a significant amount of ash and the scent of Satsuma.

“Oh!” she gasped, her step faltering slightly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m surprised you finally made it home,” he said, lightly sarcastic. “It’s only been two days after Renout ordered you to.”

“Yes, well, I needed a shower.”

She navigated around him easily, bracing her hand on his shoulder as she locked her bag in the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet. Then she leaned over him to look for a mug. Her breasts pressed against his arm, and Draco forgot all about his apathy.

“Is this a hint?”

“Not at all,” she said, as if scandalized at the idea. “Coffee?”

She grabbed a mug, which Draco hit with a quick Scourgify as it passed by his ear.

“Disgusting habit you’ve developed,” he remarked casually.

Hermione shrugged. “It’s an acquired taste. You can blame Alfredo for it.”

“I do.”

She laughed through her nose and went to get coffee. Draco Summoned a chair and waited for her to finish exchanging pleasantries with her office-mates. She closed the door once again, took a seat, and held the brew below her nose, looking blissful as she inhaled its aroma.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Draco swallowed thickly, trying not to notice the appealing flush of her cheeks and the new brightness in her eyes.

“Did those books you requested for me come in yet?”

Hermione nodded and waved at the filing cabinet. The second-to-bottom drawer rolled open and two thick books popped up. Draco grabbed them, glanced at the titles, and waved the drawer shut. He set the books on her desk.

“Whenever I ask the Desk for something, it takes a week. You ask, and it takes a day. I feel like you’ve missed your calling.”

She considered him for a moment, then took another sip. “I think it’s because I say _please_.”

Draco’s eyes widened, and then he laughed. “You say _please_?”

She cocked her head at him and said seriously, “Of course.”

He chuckled again, his smile lingering. _Of course_ she said please. That was why he loved her: she always surprised him. The silence was a bit too long and his expression probably a bit too soft as Hermione shifted and cleared her throat.

“So!” he said quickly. “How’s your cure coming along?”

Her brow furrowed. “Well enough, I suppose. I read through the research packet we were given and ran a few preliminary test of my own, but…” She sighed. “I don’t know. Something about it seems strange to me. It’s similar to the poliovirus, you know.”

Draco nodded. “Similar viral structure, replication strategy, and method of transmission. I’ve read the file, too. What of it?”

“Well, I contacted a colleague from Guy’s and St Thomas’, who managed to get me a sample of one of the poliovirus vaccinations. I doused some normal mammalian cells with it –”

“Your own cells, I’m assuming,” he said with a pointed look.

Hermione dismissed his look with a wave. “Why not? My body is a quick and convenient source, and I never have to worry about obtaining consent. _Anyway_ ,” she continued, smiling at Draco’s laugh, “I introduced some of the Collier’s infected cells into the inoculated group. _Nothing happened_.”

Draco sat up straight, his body tense with excitement. “Infection occurs immediately in most cases. Within _minutes_. The Muggle vaccine actually _worked_?”

“No.”

Draco sat back in his chair and scowled. “What happened, then? Because it was either _something_ or _nothing_.”

“I observed them for five minutes and measured the viral load. Still nothing. I did the same at ten minutes, fifteen, thirty, and an hour. Then two hours. I came back every hour on the hour, and at hour ten saw that I had missed the entire thing! The inoculated cells became infected. I repeated the test and watched the sample from hours nine to ten. At nine hours, fifty-seven minutes, infection began.”

“Merlin,” Draco muttered. “Temporary immunity.”

“ _Very_ temporary,” she corrected. “Not long enough to make it a viable, real-world solution. Not to mention that it’s a form of _prevention_ , not a _cure_. The vaccine didn’t do anything to the infected cells. Still, it’s a start. The vaccine I used was the oral version, which uses an attenuated, or weakened, version of the poliovirus. It usually requires three treatments to provide immunity to the three polio serotypes. I only did one dose. There’s the Salk vaccine, too, which uses a chemically inactivated form of the virus. Collier’s might react differently to that.”

“Why not just use the chemical that Salk used? You could inactivate the virus directly _in_ the cells.”

She smiled at him gently, almost pityingly, which is how Draco knew that he was very, very wrong. “The chemical Salk used was formalin, more commonly known as formaldehyde.”

“Which is extremely hazardous to human health,” Draco finished for her, catching on immediately. “Right. Wouldn’t help to have both Collier’s and formaldehyde poisoning.”

“Not to mention the possibility of cancer, if you happened to live through the Collier’s.”

“Which no one has done.”

“ _Yet_.”

Draco smiled at her and drummed his fingers against his knee.

“How’s your research coming?”

He shifted in his seat. “Well, I thought I was on the right track. I’ve filled at least eight vials with potential cures.”

Hermione sat up so quickly that she nearly spilled coffee onto her lap. “ _Really_? Draco, that’s great! How –”

“ _Thought_ I was,” he interrupted sternly. “Now I’m not so sure.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why? What made you change your mind?”

“You,” he replied.

“ _Me_?” she scoffed, obviously trying not to laugh at him. “What could I have done to disprove your work?”

“I only left my cells for three hours. You left yours for ten. Just because cells were no longer actively lysing doesn’t mean the virus had ceased to replicate or that its defenses had been broken. I bet that if I repeat my experiments and let the cells sit for as long as you did, they’d begin lysing again.”

“What was your viral load like at the end of the three hours?”

“That’s the only good news, I suppose,” he said with a sigh. “Viral load had decreased to less than three percent.”

“The titer needed for infection is over five percent.”

“I know.”

“Well, that’s fantastic progress!”

“But not a cure,” he said bitterly. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. “The patient is running out of time.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste it.” Hermione set down her empty cup decisively. “We need to get back to our labs. Come on. Up you get.”

She tugged at his arm, and he rose with a groan. She cut off his grumbling with her lips against his. They were gone before he could fully comprehend what had happened.

“Don’t give up. You’re doing great,” she said quietly. Her hands dropped from his forearms to his wrists, then to his hands. “A few more trials and you’ll have a potion named after you.”

He smiled at her and pressed a light kiss to her nose. “I sincerely hope so.”

She laughed and gently pushed him away. Then she opened the door, and the warmth that had bubbled between them was sucked away.

“I’ll be in my lab or the library. Just send a memo if you need me.” She spoke briskly, brushing past him without a glance. Draco tried not to glare. The way she could shift from warm to cold with no more than an opened door was his least favorite thing about her. She was so compartmentalized, so strict, as if she had forgotten how to bend the rules since she split up from Potter and Weasley.

He followed her through the Alley, closed the door, and grabbed her wrist before she could disappear into her lab. “Dinner in the cafeteria.” It was more of a demand than a question.

She winced; Draco at once knew that he’d overstepped.

“It depends on how much I manage to finish,” she hedged.

He let her go and stepped back, trying to maintain his composure when all he wanted to do was grab her by the shoulders and shake. “Very well,” he said evenly. “I’ll see you later.”

~*~

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

Draco looked around Regina Whyte’s office. He’d never been before. Never had a reason to. She usually had better things to attend to than a fourth-year resident, especially one who would not be working on her floor. He was surprised they let him out of the Ward, considering… Considering…

“Mr Malfoy? Can you hear me?”

Her office was tastefully decorated, but cold. It reminded him of his own office, in a way, but where his was bare, hers was accented in black, grey, and white. A swirling piece of abstract art in those same colors adorned the wall behind Whyte’s chair. A landscape painting would have been much more comforting, but perhaps that was the point. One shouldn’t feel comfortable when meeting with a Department Head. He certainly was not comfortable now.

A streak of red appeared in the painting’s churning mess, and Draco’s stomach turned over.

He doubted he’d ever be comfortable again.

“ _Draco_.”

Her tone was sharp. He stopped staring at the painting and began staring at her.

Everything was disconnected. Separated somehow. He did not bother grasping for the threads that would tie things together again. They would come on their own, he knew, and then he would wish that they hadn’t.

“I understand that this has been a shock for you.”

She understood nothing.

“I personally guarantee that you will receive the very best treatment.”

There were no guarantees but oblivion.

“But we can only begin that process after we’ve learned what _happened_.”

What _had_ happened?

“I need you to tell me everything, starting from when you arrived in Room Four.”

Room Four.

Something rushed at him. Understanding, or was there suddenly a fierce wind? Draco blinked and furrowed his brow. An entire lifetime had passed between then and now.

“You received a memo,” Whyte prompted in a gentle voice. “A memo from Maurice Stockell. Who is Maurice?”

He knew that. He could answer that. “Attending Healer of the George Giles Quarantine Ward.” His voice sounded weak and echoing, as if it were coming from outside of his body. He didn’t like it. He cleared his throat.

“What did the memo say?”

He could answer that, too. “He wanted us –”

“Us?”

“Hermione.” His response was immediate. Hermione was calm in the chaos, light in the void. Her very name brought him clarity. He repeated it and felt stronger. Regina made a note on her parchment. He hadn’t even seen her pick up a quill.

“Continue.”

“He wanted us to get our cures and meet him in the Quarantine Ward.”

“What for?”

“Testing. The patient –”

“Name?”

“Robert Friska. He had Collier’s. And Stockell…” The memory grew fuzzy. The abstract painting above her shoulder undulated in time with the contents of his stomach, revealing once more that harsh flash of red. Bile bit his throat. “He wanted us…”

Whyte snapped her fingers. “ _Focus_ , Draco. What did Maurice want you to do?”

“The patient was out of time. If we wanted to cure him, it had to be soon.”

“So both you and Ms Granger had what you thought were cures.”

Draco shook his head. “No. Not Hermione. She wasn’t confident in what she’d done. She thought there was more to it. She thought we were being hasty. She was worried…” He’d seen her agitation so clearly: how she gnawed on her bottom lip, how tightly her fingers gripped her notebook, how her eyes flit from Stockell to him to Friska to the floor to him again.

The room blurred. Whyte snapped her fingers again. Draco slowly turned his eyes back to her.

“You explained your treatment to Mr Friska,” Whyte continued.

“Yes.”

“You’re certain he understood that your treatment was an experimental procedure that could very well be fatal?”

His voice cracked. “Yes.”

Whyte nodded. Draco thought she looked relieved. “Ms Granger has corroborated that neither you nor Maurice coerced Mr Friska into accepting treatment. Maurice has provided me with a copy of the signed consent form. Regarding the death of Robert Friska, you will suffer no consequences.”

Draco could have laughed: all he had now were consequences.

Whyte sighed heavily and shuffled the papers before her. “I will now read from Ms Granger’s statement. Please stop me if you notice any errors or omissions.”

She began, and Draco listened up to when Friska had accepted the treatment. Then there was another roar, another rush, and memories surged forward. Her words were washed away in the torrent, and Draco nearly drowned in the flood.

Overwhelming, but piecemeal. They came in brief flashes of a whole that would have been indecipherable to anyone who hadn’t lived it.

A thin man in wire-rimmed spectacles hunched forward in a hospital bed, clutching his throat.

A spray of blood. The world turned from orange to red, and wet, and warm. He tasted copper and salt.

A punch to his gut. A deluge of frigid, bright orange water.

Salt turned to acid as beige vomit swirled down a brass drain.

A pair of wide brown eyes full of the same dread that squeezed his chest and made the room tilt.

Draco clutched the arms of his chair, his fingernails finding no purchase in the smooth leather. A pressure on his back helped guide his head and neck to between his knees. He tried to measure his breathing, but all he could manage were dry, choking gasps.

“I’m…”

“Draco, please, calm down. We’re going to help you. Maurice?”

It came in waves, powerful surges that pounded away his reality. The room shifted again. The rug beneath his feet crested close, so close that he could see each fiber, and then sunk away in a valley so low that Draco felt like he was miles above it. His head spun. He clutched it hard, pulled his hair, but no amount of pain could relieve the pressure of implosion.

“We need a Calming Draught, quickly! Breathe, Draco. _Breathe_.”

A vial was placed to his lips, but he pushed it away. Hands tried to restrain his arms, but he pushed those away, too, and then pushed himself up. Up, and away, and then he was flying. Through a field of people surrounding him, whose grabbing fingers were stung whenever they ventured too close to his skin. Through a pair of doors and into the clarity of a brisk autumn day, where the implosion finally ceased and all the loose threads finally tied themselves together and stretched taught, baring the truth plainly, without adornment or the possibility of misrepresentation.

There was no draught for him. No calm. No guarantees. No understanding. No comfort.

There was only infection, and Draco’s new life as the infected.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Denial lasted only as long as it took Draco to take a breath of autumn air.

The world rushed at him, painfully bright and hyper-focused. A Muggle with a briefcase and scuffed brown shoes glanced at him sideways, wary of his damp robes and wild expression. A witch escorting her child missed a step, then stopped entirely, placing herself protectively between them. The faceless mannequin in the St Mungo’s window turned toward him slowly, accusingly. Draco heard footsteps pounding down the hidden corridor.

He had to get out, get away, run, _escape_. Escape before they caught him and tested him and damned him to a miserable, truncated life that would end in his miserable, solitary death.

He turned on the spot, Apparating directly into his private chamber at Malfoy Manor. It was as much of a prison as Mungo’s, but better in one way: he was alone. He supposed he should have felt guilty for assaulting his superiors and leaving hospital grounds. He wasn’t fit to be in public (Indecent? Indisposed? _Infected_.) But the thought of other people, with their organs intact and their blood unsullied and their lives stretching long and open before them, made him sick and angry and – worst, unavoidably – _envious_.

He hadn’t spread it. Of this, he was certain. Collier’s needed exposure to the inside of the body. Blood, saliva, semen, feces… The virus could be transmitted easily by any of those routes. Whyte was sure to have quarantined everything he’d touched, stepped on, breathed near, or looked at inside the hospital. He hadn’t been near enough to the people he’d seen at the entrance to have put them at risk, though Whyte had probably captured them by now, anyway. The house-elves were safe, too, not only barred from his room unless called, but also naturally immune, as the virus had not yet evolved to infect any species but _Homo sapiens_.

Draco smiled a wry smile. He’d often wished, in his youth, to be someone ( _anyone_ ), other than himself. This was the first time he could remember wishing that he could anything other than _human_.

His eyes fell upon the bottle of whiskey Lucius had given him upon his acceptance into Hippocrates’ School, and his smile turned sour.

If he had to bear the burden of humanity, at least he could do it while blitzed out of his mind.

He grabbed the bottle by its neck and read the label. It was Blishen’s – a nearly priceless vintage from the early nineteenth century that had been aged in an oak barrel. It was famous for its toffee and vanilla notes, and its ability to ‘come faster than a virgin in Venus.’

Draco drank until he vomited, just barely making it into an empty cauldron. To wash the taste of bile out of his mouth, he drank the rest. The world twisted and turned, and he cackled as the alcohol simmered through his veins. He lugged the cauldron of vomit onto his balcony and, with a clumsy wave of his wand, set it on fire. He added his shirt, trousers, and underwear to the flames and stood before the acreage of Malfoy Manor with his arms outstretched, naked but for his socks, wondering what it was to burn.

To burn, or to fly.

He heaved one leg over the railing.

This was right. This was perfect. This was the best and most fitting tableau in which to end his life. He would launch himself into the darkness before the fire could bite. He would throw himself into Death’s arms with a laugh instead of a whimper. He would be sarcastic and proud and prove that he could commit to something grand without regret or hesitation. He would prove that he was not afraid of oblivion.

A sudden wave of heady pleasure knocked him backwards. He reeled, unbalanced on one leg, and fell without catching himself. His skull cracked against stone, and there was just one moment of fleeting pain before the world went black.

He woke hours later with a pounding headache and a sense of realignment. The irony of his consciousness was not lost upon him: the drinking he’d done last night, which would have killed most people, had unquestionably saved his life.

Draco was not a believer in coincidence. He could not waste any more time.

He stepped into the shower, running it so hot that his skin turned pink and tender. He shaved carefully, trying not to look himself in the eyes, trying not to think about how a bit more pressure, the slightest change of angle, and a quick flick of his wrist could change things.

He dressed in his finest clothes: a pristine white shirt, black slacks, and a well-tailored, slate-grey robe that brought out the darker flecks in his light grey eyes. He polished his dragon hide boots and pulled them on slowly, knowing that, once he finished, he would have no more excuses. As he fastened the final buckle, a cold feeling settled in his chest, unabated by the warmth of his wand in his hand.

He looked around his room a final time and then, pointing his wand at his bed, said, “ _Incendio_.”

The fabric caught at once, spreading immediately to the wooden frame, then down, across the rug on the stone floor, and up to his wardrobe, which then caught his vanity, bookshelf, and chair. His full-length mirror warped and fell from the wall, striking the floor with a dull _crack_. Draco shot another spell into the bathroom, making sure that the shower curtain and rug had caught, and then backed out of the French doors and onto his balcony. Finally, he lit the curtains.

He paused for a minute to watch the fire consume what his life had looked like. Scraps of fabric and parchment drifted through the open doors, landing upon and singeing his robe, dusting his shoes with grey, and mottling his scrubbed skin. Darkening smoke billowed toward him. His eyes stung. His lungs fought for oxygen.

It was time to go.

He Apparated to the only un-warded area in St Mungo’s, where patrons could come and go as they pleased: the Research Library. But there was something different about his arrival. A gentle, double-push to his chest. It was the signature of a personal ward. A signature he would recognize anywhere.

She had made it so simple. All he had to do was wait.

He was not disappointed. Hermione burst through the double doors mere seconds later, wand in hand. She looked exhausted, with her hair wild on one side and matted on the other and her robe creased in strange places. Her body trembled as she approached, the result of nerves worn close to breaking. He held up his hands before him, his wand in its holster at his waist, and fought the instinct to catch her as when she finally realized what she saw and stumbled. Her knees buckled, and Draco winced as she staggered backwards, catching herself hard against the wall.

“Draco.” Her voice was hoarse and throaty, contorted at once by pain, relief, and sorrow.

“Are you okay?” He was surprised at the evenness of his own voice. It wasn’t normal – nothing about him was normal now – but it was soft and measured, tamed to reflect his façade of cool control.

Her eyes snapped back to him. The fear that he’d seen in them, a mere shade of the terror that curled between his organs and clutched at his heart, disappeared. It was replaced at once by fury.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” She enunciated carefully, hoisting herself mostly upright to better meet his height.

It was astonishing, how quickly her body adapted to change. Her voice was now a rasping hiss, filed to a point by venom and revulsion. Draco understood and was not upset. She had every right to be angry with him.

“The Manor,” he answered honestly. “I needed –”

“Do you know where I’ve been?” she interrupted hotly. “Do you know what I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours doing?”

He did not get the chance to guess.

“ _Looking for you_ ,” she spat with a sneer. “As was every other member of this damn hospital. Do you even realize the damage you could’ve done?”

“I’m not a moron,” he replied stiffly, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin just slightly. “Those three who saw me outside. Are they –”

“Clean,” she said. The relief she must have felt could not find a niche in her tone. “But who knows what other damage you might have done?”

“None.” He was confident it was the truth. “I Apparated straight into the Manor. I had no contact with anyone else, and I sealed and burned my room before I left.”

“The elves. Your _mother_.”

Draco’s anger swelled gently. “Only I had access to my room, and the fire was contained. It will be years before someone even realizes it happened.”

She ignored him and pressed her palms into her eyes, trying to regain a modicum of composure. “It was irresponsible, _dangerous_ , unspeakably, inconceivably _stupid_ …” Her anger, which had given her strength, began to fade. Draco could see that she was starting to feel every minute she’d spent awake searching for him.

Her chin quivered, and he felt the first twinge of shame. She dropped her hands and looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

“Your blood work came back,” she said softly.

Before he could think to stop it, hope sprouted within him. Inexplicable, unstoppable, and irrational, but present nonetheless. It was possible that her rage and her tears were born from relief that he had returned unharmed, that he hadn’t succeeded in doing anything irreversible while out of their control. It was possible that he had beaten the astronomical odds. It was possible that she would tell him that he was safe. It was possible that she would embrace him, and it was assured that he would sob, unashamedly and unreservedly, into her hair. It was possible that he would no longer feel crushed by the weight of imminent death, that he would be given yet another chance to make his life what he wanted and knew it could be.

It was possible. He only had to ask the question.

“How many days do I have left to live?”

Hermione hesitated, choked on the answer, and that was answer enough. The spark that had kept him whole and standing went out, and the breath he had been holding – for they were numbered now, and each one felt precious – fluttered away, deflating him, making him feel somehow _less_.

His mind surrendered control to his body, which, though it would soon cease to function, now turned him away from Hermione’s hunched and shuddering form. He could hardly hear her gasping sobs over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Twenty-seven days.

He had toyed with the idea of a positive diagnosis. It had drifted through his mind as a spirit might drift through a wall – quiet and insignificant, gone before anyone fully realized it was there. But the walls of his mind had since turned impenetrable, and the spirit of truth floated around his consciousness, not yet coalescing or settling, but rather brushing lightly against his every thought, coloring his vision just slightly grey and filling his life with lasts.

This was the last time he would see the entrance to the Alley.

This was the last time he would pass Hermione’s laboratory.

This was the last time he would walk up the stairs from the Basement.

It was like the odor of food just beginning to rot, or the smell of a recently deceased animal hidden in a broom shed. There, lingering, but indistinct. Gone if searched for too intently. Only obvious once it was too late and whatever had been decomposing was no more than a puddle of bacterial sludge, festering with maggots and assaulting on the most visceral level.

He did not realize that he had reached the Second Floor until two burly men in white coats and masks yanked him from the stairwell. They held his arms tightly, sandwiching him between them. Draco was momentarily amazed at their stupidity or bravery. Then a wandtip pressed into his back, and Draco knew it was the former. He twisted his arm, straining for the wand at his hip, and the wand at his back jabbed inward suddenly, bringing with it a light stinging jinx.

A warning.

“ _Unhand me_.” His voice was smooth and dangerous. Unpredictable.

Why shouldn’t he be? With twenty-seven days left to live, he was a man with nothing to lose. What could they do? Incarcerate him? Sentence him to death? He would submit willingly to the former; the latter was downright laughable.

The man at his back jabbed him again, this time prodding him forward.

Draco did not move. It was one thing to be prodded like cattle; it was quite another to respond like one.

A spell flew at him. Draco moved too late to dodge it. His legs snapped together, and he would’ve fallen over if it weren’t for the goons at his sides and back holding him upright.

The caster was a livid Whyte. She stood before him with her hands on her hips and, from what little he could see of her face, a furious expression. She, like the men who had grabbed him, was dressed in a long white coat, disposable blue booties, a hair net, safety glasses, and a mask that covered her nose and mouth.

“New uniform?” Draco asked, arching an eyebrow. “I think I preferred the lime green.”

“It’s for our own safety.” Her voice was surprisingly clear. “I will not put others at risk.”

He imagined her snarling and mirrored the expression, his voice full of spite. “Because Collier’s can’t penetrate Muggle equipment, can it? Once you learned the ACS was worse than useless against it…”

Whyte’s sangfroid flickered. “We began testing immediately. The AntiContagion Shield had never failed before. Dragon pox, spattergroit, scrofungulus… All highly contagious diseases, but all unable to infect because of the ACS. We thought Collier’s was the same. We thought its magic was defensive only; we didn’t even consider that it could play a role in infection, but it does. The virus eats right through the ACS, but it can’t get past a physical barrier. We think it _needs_ magic to _be magical_. If we had known, if we had even _guessed_ , we would never have let you, or anyone, anywhere _close_ to…”

There it was again, the subtle pressure of truth against the barrier of his sanity.

“That’s one hell of an oversight,” he muttered.

Whyte pursed her lips. “St Mungo’s is taking steps to ensure that something like this never happens again. However, we have to deal with what has happened, and though you were a resident here and had nearly finished your stay, I cannot let you escape the consequences of leaving hospital grounds with the knowledge that you could be infected.”

The pressure intensified; his barrier trembled. It would all come caving in on him soon.

But not yet.

“Could be?” Draco asked with a sneer. “Haven’t you heard? My results came back.”

She had heard, of course, and Draco smirked in satisfaction as her fingers twitched along the shaft of her wand. As far as he knew, Whyte was not a violent person, but he wondered if she had the urge to strike him. He wondered what he could say to make her land the blow. He wondered if he’d be any better off if he succeeded and she was _asked to retire_.

The moment passed, and Whyte took a deep breath. “You will be held in the Quarantine Ward under twenty-four hour surveillance by three armed MLE officers. Your visitors will be restricted to your Attending Healer and your family.”

Neither punishment was a surprise, or even much of a punishment. His isolation was expected; he preferred it that way. And he did not plan to tell his mother until… Until he felt she needed to know.

There was one thing she hadn’t mentioned, though, and Draco struggled to keep his voice even and his face impassive as he asked about his equipment.

Whyte’s eyes tightened. “Your equipment will stay in your laboratory.”

Hearing it was almost a relief. Information like this was easy to process and internalize. He knew how to feel about his inability to continue his research, about his inability to potentially save his own life.

“You can’t do that,” he said slowly. Blood pounded through his veins and colored his cheeks. He clenched his fists. The men holding him felt him tense and tightened their grip.

“These are the consequences. You shouldn’t have left.”

Though it nearly choked him, Draco swallowed his anger and his pride. “ _Please_.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. Guards, take him to his room.”

The guards turned him away from Whyte and small crowd that had gathered to watch and towards Stockell, who was waiting for them at the entrance to the Quarantine Ward. The Healer pressed his wand to the sensor and allowed all three of them through. He followed after, then stepped around them to lead them down the hall.

The barrier holding Draco together weakened as he passed Room Four. Hermione had been so concerned for him. She clutched his arm, her eyes begging for caution, but Stockell had sounded so serious and Friska so hopeful. He had felt so confident, so _trusted_.

He would give anything to take that moment back.

The airlock before Room Twelve, the last on the ward, hissed as Stockell pressed his wand to the sensor. The guards shoved Draco through, barely wrenching their gloved hands back as the doors closed. Draco waited patiently as it coated him with the useless ACS, and then stepped into the room. As soon as the airlock closed, he pressed his wand to the sensor. Under normal circumstances, the airlock would have opened and let him out.

His circumstances were not normal.

“She took away your access rights,” Stockell said needlessly.

Draco grimaced. “Had to try.”

Stockell nodded, hesitated for a moment as if he wanted to say more, then thought better of it and walked away. The two guards who had brought him took seats on either side of the door, their backs turned to him. The third walked with Stockell up the corridor. Draco leaned against the small window and watched until they disappeared from sight. Then he scowled and turned his back on them, too.

He had worked at St Mungo’s for long enough to know the room’s layout without having to look. It was a slightly outdated, supremely utilitarian setup. Two chairs flanked a small table, which sat below the room’s single window. To the left of that was a modest closet, and then the door to the loo, which was spacious enough for a patient and two aides. The main feature, of course, was the bed. It was a little larger than a twin but not quite a double, with pillows and a mattress that adjusted their firmness automatically and could be contorted into all sorts of shapes by the tap of a wand or, if the patient was too infirm for magic, the lightest touch of a finger to a button. The sheets were stark white, the walls pale blue, and the floor an ugly beige tile.

But Draco was a Junior Healer. He knew there was much so much more to the room than old furniture and dingy paint.

He saw the unevenly bleached look of a floor that had been sanitized and re-sanitized as patients had defecated, bled, and expired upon it, pressing their cheeks to it in a fruitless attempt to escape the pain. He saw bed linens that were ordered in bulk, never used twice, and only changed if the patient had rendered them unusable. He saw the instruments and equipment that would monitor his heartbeat, lung function, brain activity, muscle control, and organ function that, in his case, were not prolongers of life, but trackers of death.

 _Twenty-seven days_.

Draco leaned against the door and sank down slowly until he sat upon the floor.

Finally, the phantom of truth in his mind coalesced, knocking away the last vestiges of his composure. His breathing sped up; his heart hammered in his chest; his fists clenched; his body tingled; the world spun.

Draco was terminal.

This room was little more than a place to die.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Three days after Draco’s incarceration, the nausea began. Stockell, who was still in charge of symptom management, administered a potion that prevented nausea and vomiting in thirty-three percent of Collier’s patients.

Draco was not part of the thirty-three percent.

After two days, his vomiting was so severe that he abandoned what little comfort the hospital bed provided for the cold, smooth tile of the lavatory floor. He held onto the toilet as if it were a life preserver in a stormy sea. He hunched over it, hugged it, cursed it, considered letting go and drowning himself in it.

Before he could take the plunge, a jet of bile and mucous surged up his esophagus. His back arched as he retched, his throat and mouth burning from stomach acid. The taste was repulsive; the sight reminded him of the worst parts of war; the sound of its spatter into the toilet made him want to gouge his eardrums. But the smell – the hot-sour acid and half-digested food combined with the subtle odor of bleach that didn’t quite mask the stench of his own shit and piss – was more than he could handle. He heaved again, the second wave no more productive than the first, but twice as painful.

Sweat dripped down his face and body, slicking his hair to his forehead and dampening his thin hospital robe. It stuck to his skin, cold and uncomfortable beneath his arms, along his chest, and at his lower back. He swiped for the lever, but his shaking, shivering body was clumsy. He missed it and pitched forward, nearly breaking his front teeth upon the toilet’s porcelain rim. He glared weakly at the lever, then closed his eyes as he rested his head upon the tile floor.

This was as bad as it could get. This was as low as he could go. It had to be. All he wanted to do was flush his mess away, to distance himself from the sight and smell of his body falling apart from the inside. But he couldn’t. Was physically unable to. His body no longer worked the way it should. His fingers were like lead weights attached to boneless arms. His thoughts were confused and unfocused. He was too dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted to fathom attempting to stand, much less crawl, to his bedside. He’d never be able to retrieve his wand from the nightstand, anyway, and if he did, he doubted he’d have the strength for even the simplest spell.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of reinserting his intravenous line. Stockell had hooked him up to it hours ago, but a particularly violent heave had dislodged it mere minutes after he left. Draco cracked his eyes and saw it lying within an arm’s length. Nourishing saline solution dripped from the tip of the needle, creating a small puddle upon the tile. He tried to calculate the odds of the tip having contacted the floor, tried to remember the compendium of microbes that could be found on a dirty floor and which of those could kill him, but the information lingered on the outskirts of his mind, just beyond where his consciousness would allow him to reach.

But the needle was within his reach. If he could grab it and find a vein…

Dying from sepsis would be better than this.

 _Anything_ would be better than this.

Tears dripped slowly from his eyes as he stretched his arm toward the needle. He was an inch away; it felt like a mile. Then his fingers brushed the plastic syringe, and he hissed as he gouged a finger on this sharp, beveled tip. He tried again and felt only relief this time as his hand closed around it. He rolled onto his back and clutched the needle to his chest, breathing heavily. He lifted his arm, which swam and undulated before him. He closed his eyes again. There was no way he’d be able to find a vein.

But that didn’t matter, did it? The puncture itself would be enough. Blood would rush to the site, carrying platelets and white blood cells – everything a healthy body would need to heal a wound. But his body was not healthy. His white blood cells were unlikely to fight off even the slightest infection. It would spread throughout his body, working with the Collier’s to kill him more effectively. To save him from this pain.

He rested the needle at a slant on his arm and took a deep breath. Just as he was about to slip it into his skin, he felt a presence in the room. Smelled something other than acid and ammonia.

 _Hermione_.

Strength flew out of him. He dropped the needle, and then her hands were upon him, gentle and warm and soft on his clammy skin. She smoothed his hair back and pressed her palm against his forehead. He kept his eyes closed and relished the touch. It had been so long since someone had touched him like this, so long since someone had worried about his comfort over their own.

Slowly, she propped him up on her folded legs. His stomach churned at the change of position. Instinct instructed him to curl back up, but she stopped him, reapplying steady pressure to his forehead, cheeks, and chest. After a few minutes, the toilet flushed, and Draco urged his lips into a small smile.

She stroked his cheek and murmured to him words he knew but didn’t understand. She held him for hours, and he counted the minutes by the beats of her heart.

~*~

Draco woke to the scratching of quill on parchment. He cracked his eyes open and saw Hermione perched upon a chair at his bedside, research notebook propped open against her knees. She wore a long white coat that fell open around her thighs, which were hidden in shapeless, pale blue scrubs. Her shoes were covered in disposable blue booties, and she wore the hairnet, glasses, and mask, all now _de rigueur_ for those dealing with Collier’s patients.

He would have given anything for the ability to freeze that moment. He wanted to watch her, to study her when she thought no one else was looking. He wanted her unguarded and vulnerable. He wanted to touch the bags beneath her eyes and smell her sour breath from being with him all night. He wanted to see her as wretchedly human as he had been, if not to make himself feel better, then to reassure himself that, yes, it could happen to her, too, and no, he was not alone.

But Hermione was ever vigilant of her surroundings. Even if she hadn’t noticed his movement, the increasing _ping_ s of his heart rate monitor would have given him away. She set aside her notebook and picked up a plastic cup.

“Thirsty?”

He nodded and grabbed his wand, feeling stronger the longer he held the warm, familiar wood. He tapped the bed, adjusting himself so that he sat up comfortably. Hermione held the water to his lips. He took a small sip and leaned his head against the pillow, closing his eyes as his stomach churned. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to vomit, he opened his eyes and motioned for another sip.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like shite.” He certainly sounded it: his voice was weak from exhaustion and hoarse from vomiting. He probably looked it, too. Dehydration would have sunken his eyes, tightened his skin, and chapped his lips. The sweat from days of fever would have made his hair lank and greasy. The constant vomiting would have given him facial petechiae – small, purple spots caused from burst capillaries – around his eyes and on his cheeks. He was never so happy to not have a mirror.

“What are you doing here?”

Hermione straightened. “Pending your consent, I will assume responsibility for your immediate medical care. Major decisions will still be made through Stockell, of course, and then your mother when… Rather, _if_ –”

“ _When_ ,” he muttered. Hermione inhaled sharply, but Draco cut off whatever life-affirming rant she’d prepared. “How did this happen?”

“Well,” Hermione cleared her throat, “Whyte and I had a… _discussion_.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“Well, she was hesitant at first, but I explained that any competent Healer should be able to monitor your vitals and make sure you’re fed and bathed. I’m more than qualified for that, as I’ve technically had three years of experience in a Muggle hospital.”

“And that was it?” He reached for the water cup, which she handed over at once.

“More or less.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “Bullshite,” he said, after taking a long sip.

She looked aghast. “Pardon?”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You _are_ ,” he repeated. “I can tell. And Whyte would never have caved so easily. She nearly hexed me when I came back.”

Hermione’s lips tightened, as if she, too, was feeling the urge. “Do you know that St Mungo’s only started awarding research grants within the last twenty years?” she asked briskly.

Draco shook his head, wondering at the relevance of her remark. She did not give him time to ask.

“Within our lifetime, the most popular and well-respected wizarding hospital in England has only just _begun_ pursuing research ventures. Amazing, isn’t it?”

She paused, waiting for an answer. “I suppose,” he replied carefully.

“It is,” she affirmed with a sharp nod. “Do you know that Whyte started the initiative? In the next twenty years, she wants St Mungo’s to break the top five Healing and research institutions in Europe.”

He took another drink; she refilled his cup. “They’ve a long way to go.”

“They do, but they would be a lot closer if you were allowed to continue the work you’ve done on Collier’s.”

Hermione shifted forward, revealing what her body had hidden. All of his equipment sat on the small table beneath the window. His ingredients, his cauldron, his heat source, his mortar and pestle, his knives, his distillation set, his notebook… The space was an almost perfect replica of his laboratory upstairs, down to the four raggedy quills and dented inkpot. It would have been exact if not for the strange Muggle equipment sitting beside it.

Another piece of the puzzle snapped into place, and Draco turned his gaze from the workspace to Hermione.

“Whyte has a vested interest in seeing my research succeed,” he said in a monotone.

“She believes it has potential, yes.”

“And you’ll be reporting my every finding to her?”

“That is part of our arrangement.”

“So when I die –”

“ _If_!”

“She will take my work and give it to someone else, who will use it to vault St Mungo’s from research obscurity to a premier institution.”

Hermione looked as if she were about to speak, then closed her mouth, apparently deciding that he had understood everything. She looked at him expectantly, and he stared back. After a long moment of silence, he said, “No.”

Her brow furrowed. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure I did,” she said with a nervous laugh. “You see, I _thought_ I heard you turning down the chance to save your own life, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

“My potion _killed_ a man, Hermione. _Two_ men.”

She bit her lip and looked away from him. “You didn’t mean for that… You couldn’t have known.”

“And what else don’t I know that I’ll find out during treatment? Should I risk drowning in my own blood, Hermione?” he spat. “Or perhaps my cure will literally – literally – melt my organs. I’m already going to die. I’m not interested in making the experience any worse than it has to be.”

Her eyes snapped back to him. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” Her tone was clipped.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t!” she yelled, shooting to her feet. “You have time, Draco! You have _time_! Collier’s takes twenty-eight days to run through the body. You still have three weeks!”

“ _Two_!” he countered waspishly. “Or did you forget that I’ll be paralyzed for that final week?”

“Do you even realize the progress you could make in that time? You’re an expert in Potions. You’ve already made incredible, _unbelievable_ strides towards finding a cure. If you stop your work, it may never get finished, and not only will you have effectively killed yourself, but also everyone else who needs this cure. You _have_ to keep going. You _have_ to!”

She turned away from him and swiped at her cheeks, trying to hide her tears. But Draco had seen them. He was responsible for their creation, and the truth of it tasted bitter. He closed his eyes and leaned against the pillow once more, breathing deeply through his nose.

Six days ago, he had returned to St Mungo’s thinking that he had changed. He had thought he was prepared, ready to face the consequences of his illness, but he’d been wrong. The past few days had been the worst of his life, due in no small way to his isolation from those he cared about. From Hermione.

Now she was here, offering him company and a renewed sense of purpose. Simply by being at his bedside, she had proven that the impossible could occur. She had also brought his equipment. And if a first-year resident could bully a Department Head and get her way, who was to say that he could not succeed at something equally insane, like brewing a cure for a fatal disease in two weeks?

He nearly laughed as tears slid from beneath his eyelids. He wiped them away clumsily, mindful of the IV line stuck into the back of his hand. It _was_ insane, what he wanted to do. The type of situation that, when spoken of, made people roll their eyes and say something pithy. But hopelessness no longer felt like a justifiable excuse for his inaction, and waiting to die seemed like a monumentally foolish waste of two weeks. If he could extend the time he had, even by a little, it would be worth the effort. And what if, in that extended time, he found the cure?

Hermione took his hand; he could almost feel her warmth through her gloved hands. He laced his fingers with hers.

Her insistence that he continue his work was probably misguided. His participation in her venture was probably destructive to them both. But by her side, beneath her touch, he felt awakened, and when he opened his eyes, the world looked a little less grey.

She was here.

He had time.

But not much.

The following week, Draco slept only when necessary, ate sparsely, and cared about neither his exhaustion nor his hunger. He was lost in the zeal of discovery, enraptured by the infuriating cycle of trial and error, which inched him ever closer to a breakthrough, an elusive answer that tempted and teased and twisted away from him like a nymph in a forest.

Hermione was with him for almost all of it.

She worked quickly and spoke rarely. To Draco, it was perfect. They didn’t _need_ to communicate. Their partnership had transcended speech. If he wanted a flask, she set it next to his cauldron before he could think to ask for it. If she needed a knife, he handed it over without her having to look twice. They were in perfect rhythm, focused and excited by their own work yet totally aware of what the other was doing. It was unusual to establish this kind of synchronicity with a laboratory partner, and when it did happen, it was rarely so complete.

This gave Draco a strong feeling of vindication. He had been right about what they could be together. He had been right all along. Their collaboration was easy and natural and, though Hermione did not openly acknowledge it, Draco knew she felt it, too. She had to. It was simply too blatant to ignore.

He was content to hold onto this small victory, to keep quiet and revel in the feeling of superiority over her. But as the end of week three loomed, Draco’s contentment faded, and with it, his research-fueled enthusiasm. Trial after trial completed with no change in the infected cells, changes too small to be practical, or the death of the cells themselves, which would therefore result in the patient’s death. In _his_ death.

It was difficult to stay optimistic in the face of failure, but he could have managed it better if he weren’t also running out of ideas. He had tried so many combinations of ingredients, concentrations, brew times, stirring speeds, and distillation methods that he was sure he’d repeated some. After flipping through his notebook, he found that he had.

The discovery made him cold. It was far too late for him to go back to square one. He was nearly out of time.

Hermione’s motivation never flagged, and Draco began to study her more often than his cauldron. Watching her work was at once beautiful and painful. Beautiful because _she_ was beautiful, and brilliant, and passionate, and he basked in the light and life she emitted. Whether she was driven by preventing his death or advancing Whyte’s research agenda, Draco couldn’t exactly say, but neither did he care. Near the end of the week, it was enough for her to simply be there with him, enough to see and experience her at her absolute best before he died.

For death was certainly coming. Neither of them could ignore his worsening muscle aches. The stiffness began at his neck and worked its way down through his shoulders and back. Eventually, it descended into his abdomen, hips, and thighs. His typically confident, graceful gait became shuffling and hesitant, more reminiscent of a centenarian than a man in his mid-twenties. His uncertainty distracted Hermione from her work. She began to move more slowly, to orient herself around him, ready at a moment’s notice to catch him should he fall.

A small, sad part of him didn’t want her to catch him.

A small, sad part of him just wanted to crash.

And, with only nine days left to live, he did.

He had been moving toward his research notebook, a vial of yet another failed cure clutched in his hand, when his feet suddenly stopped. He lurched forward and caught himself on the table, barely stopping himself from falling outright and wiping out their combined workstation. The vial he had been holding slipped from between his fingers and shattered upon the floor. Bright yellow potion seeped onto the beige tile. It reminded him, strangely, of the day he became infected. Of vomit and orange water swirling down a brass drain. Of his life rushing away.

Hermione looked at him with wide eyes, her arms outstretched as if he were still falling.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he answered tersely, unable to look away from the creeping potion. “Just lost my footing.”

He reached for his wand blindly, but missed the table. He groped again and felt nothing, so he turned to look.

The room suddenly compressed.

His hand rested on his wand, but he felt nothing beneath his fingers. No warmth. No tingling. Nothing to indicate that the piece of wood and core was an extension of himself, or even there at all. He curled his fingers and watched with sinking horror as nothing happened.

 _Paralysis_.

It was easier to accept than he thought. He’d known it was coming, after all. Ever since he’d received his diagnosis, he’d known, and he’d prepared himself for the day it happened. Actually seeing it was a shock: it made his gut cramp up and his blood run cold and his head spin just enough to make him vague and a little faint. But he’d expected it, and could therefore process it quickly and without unnecessary emotion.

Because he knew what came next, too. And he knew what had to be done to facilitate that next step of disease progression.

So, with a smooth, sweeping motion of the arm which actually worked, Draco cleared his workbench. Vials of untested potion, plates of inoculated cells, his cauldron, his heat source, his ingredients, and his tools crashed to the floor, shattering, denting, spilling, becoming as useless as the spilled potion and his damned left hand.

Hermione screamed in surprise and unnecessarily protected her research with a quick flick of her wand.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shrieked.

“Moving,” he said, swinging his left arm off the table and picking up his wand with his right hand. “Might as well, while I still can.”

“Draco…”

His name in her voice, usually so reassuring, grated on him. Draco closed his eyes in an effort to check his temper.

“Give it a rest, Hermione, please. You and I both know the progression of this disease. We know the symptoms. I’m right on track to die at twenty-eight days.”

“We don’t know that,” she said calmly. “There’s still time. There’s still a chance.”

“There’s _not_ ,” he snapped. “I’m out of time, and I have no chance of surviving this. We need to stop this. _I_ need to stop.”

“You don’t –”

“No, _you_ don’t!”

Hermione straightened. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and Draco read her intentions in the lines of her face. She was going to bait him.

She did an admirable job of it, beginning with his tendency to take the path of least resistance and then moving onto his constant need for handholding and his infuriating reluctance to accept it. And though she yelled and pointed and blamed, her words felt hollow, like she was caught in a lie and perpetuating it instead of confessing. It was rare for her to lack conviction. Draco supposed he should have been happy that she could not bring herself to believe the bile she spewed about him.

He likewise was doing an admirable job of ignoring it, but something in him snapped when she accused him for lacking commitment. For giving up too easily.

In two steps, he towered over her, his mouth and chin mere inches away from her mask-covered nose. She stood her ground and glared up at him, her expression not at all diminished by her plastic safety glasses.

“I have been fighting for _years_ , Hermione. Fighting for _you_. For your respect at Hippocrates’ School, for your forgiveness after I said you wasted your time at that bloody Muggle hospital, and for one measly evening with you here at Mungo’s. How many times did we fight? How badly have you jinxed me? How many times have you told me no? And how many times did I quit? How many times did I _give up_?

“ _None_ ,” he seethed, not allowing her the chance to answer. “Not _once_. I _committed_ myself to you, and you? You strung me along. You never gave me an inch, and I realize now – too fucking late – that I never meant anything to you.”

Her body shook and her eyes became glassy with tears. “That’s not true,” she said, her voice shaking.

“It _is_!” he said with a derisive laugh. “It _is_ true! And you know how I know? Because this time, when I actually _want_ to give up, you won’t let me!”

“How does that prove anything? This is different from asking someone out to dinner, Draco! This is your life!”

“ _Exactly_!” he snarled. “ _My_ life. _Mine_. To do with as _I_ please. And if you cared one bit for me, you’d accept my decision – the inevitable! – and let me die how _I_ want to.”

“I can’t let you do that!”

“And why not?”

“Because I love –”

He shoved her. Put his hands upon her shoulders and pushed, hard, until she stumbled backwards and caught herself on the closet doors, until she was as far away from him as she could be, and he was no longer assaulted by her body and her smell and her damnable eyes.

“ _Get. Out_.” He had never felt more dangerous.

“Draco, please.” She trembled forward, reaching toward him with a small, gloved hand. “Please let me explain –”

“You do not have the right to explain,” he said lowly.

“But –”

“ _No_ ,” he cut in. He saw her breaking, but it was too late to stop, even if he wanted to. This was their reckoning, and damned if he was going to let it pass without speaking the truth. “You are selfish and manipulative. You are the worst kind of witch, and why no one but me gets to see that side of you isn’t my problem anymore.”

“You don’t understand. This week, this past month, I’ve –”

“I don’t _care_ what you think you’ve realized. I don’t _care_ what lie you’ve told yourself to alleviate your own regret.”

“Draco, you must –”

“I revoke your rights as my Attending Healer,” he said loudly, drowning her out. The words hit her like a blow, and the hospital’s spell activated at once, herding her away from him and towards the door. Her hand clutched at her chest; she looked breathless and lost.

“Please…”

“I will have Stockell transport your equipment back to your lab.”

“Please, don’t do this.”

“It’s done. Now get out.”

She was at the airlock, struggling against the spell as it pushed her into the chamber. She wrapped her hand around the door, gripping it tightly, giving herself just one more minute.

“What will I do?”

Draco straightened. “I don’t care,” he said softly, finally. “Just as long as I never have to see you again.”

She gasped in pain, and Draco felt a surge of sick triumph as he watched her heart break. Her hand released the door, the airlock hissed, and then dispelled her into the hallway and out of his sight.

But not away. He heard her break down, felt each of her quiet sobs like a punch to the gut, and shared in the anguish that he had caused her. That _she_ had caused _them_. With a final sneer, he flicked his wand at the door. A heavy silence replaced her sobs. It pressed down on him, pinning him in place as another rush of reality washed over him.

The triumph was gone. In its place was hollowness, an aching in the pit of his stomach. He felt numb, as if he had consciously destroyed something irreplaceable and beloved. He felt sick with it and staggered to his bed, where he collapsed.

At last, he began to grieve.

~*~

Three days later, Draco woke to his mother’s touch.

She gripped his hand tightly with her own; he could not feel the temperature of her skin through the gloves. Her platinum hair was pulled away from her face and covered by a hairnet. A surgical mask obscured her mouth, and the skin around her bright, tear-filled blue eyes was tight, as if she were trying to smile but only managing a grimace. She looked older than he remembered, more fragile, and the sudden reality of leaving her brought a hard knot into his throat.

He tried to swallow, tried to buy time to find the words which could explain what had happened to him as well as what was going to, but he was too slow. A sob ripped through her, and Draco gathered her to him as best he could with his weakening limbs, forgetting his own grief to focus on hers.

“How did you find out?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Ms Granger Floo’d me,” she replied, prying herself from him. He braced himself for the inevitable question – why did he not tell her himself? – but she gave him only a wretched, reproachful look, which was much worse.

Compounding his misery was the fact that Hermione had been the one to break the news. His kneejerk reaction was to be furious at her meddling, but all he could manage was vague gratitude. He had trashed his research, confined himself to his bed, and was in the process of internalizing his death. The responsibility of breaking this news to his mother was one he had purposely ignored. She had even given him time to do it himself: Hermione could have gone to Narcissa the day of their argument, but she waited, and he had undoubtedly disappointed her with his delaying. It was a sobering thought.

“She mentioned a cure,” Narcissa continued, a little stiffly. “She said that you were close, and that you chose –”

“To live out the remainder of my life how I want to,” he cut in. “I want to live and die on my own terms. Not on hers, and certainly not on Mungo’s.”

“But she was working with you, was she not?” Narcissa’s voice lilted up at the end, and Draco winced.

“Her research was never serious,” he said in a monotone. “It was an experiment, started only because Mungo’s was desperate and her methods were untried.”

“Perhaps if she had more time, or more money –”

Draco shook his head. “It’s no use, mother. She… She just can’t.”

Narcissa bit her lip and looked down at the floor, fighting tears. Draco didn’t bother, letting them slip down his cheeks. He had hoped once, too, and the memory of it caused a dull ache somewhere behind his ribcage.

For a moment, he considered telling her everything. About how Hermione had confessed her love for him when it mattered least, when absolutely nothing could come of it but pain. How she manipulated him, how selfish she was, and how foolish he had been to fall for the worst kind of witch, a siren in Healer’s robes.

But he didn’t. He thought of their reckoning every day, and always he questioned whether her confession was simply a reaction to trauma, or the most poorly timed declaration in the history of humankind.

Maybe she did love him. Maybe he’d been the fool not for falling in love with her, but for denying her the chance to realize it. For denying himself the chance to feel it.

Narcissa would know the answer. She would delve to the heart of their troubles at once, and she would tell him the truth. Either version of the truth would hurt, and Draco didn’t know how much more pain he could endure. He thought it might be easier, at this point, to leave it be. It may be better that her final memory of him was marred by violence and tears; it would allow her to heal more easily once he was gone. It may be better for him to die without knowing what, if anything, he meant to her; it would save him from needless suffering.

Yes, it may be better to die without ever seeing her again. He would die with regret, but she would have a life after grief. It was satisfying, in a way: though he may be unsure about her feelings for him, he knew what he felt for her. That kind of conviction in the face of an uncertain beyond was the most comforting notion he had.

~*~

The twenty-eighth day had finally arrived, and Draco could barely breathe. His limbs were numb, already dead, and the rest of his body was slowly catching up. He felt that much, at least. Each breath was a measure of life: each inhale was a little more difficult, each exhale a little more permanent.

The Welcome Witch’s voice sounded over the hospital’s tinny public address system, informing visitors that they had to leave. Narcissa gave him one last kiss and one final, lingering hug. She gaspingly assured him that she would be all right – that everything would be all right. She loved him, she was proud of him, she couldn’t have asked for a better son, and then she was gone,

The room lights dimmed, and Draco was alone in the semi-darkness.

He closed his eyes to stop from watching the clock and closed his ears to the slowing _ping_ of the heart rate monitor. He listened instead to his breathing and reflected upon his life one final time.

Just four weeks ago, he had known what he wanted: a career, a chance to pursue his passion, and the opportunity to spend time with the witch he loved.

None of those had happened. Draco had failed on all counts.

Coming to terms with that had not been simple. Prosperity and family were banners of accomplishment. As Draco had neither, his life could hardly be termed a success. However, it hadn’t been a complete embarrassment either. He’d managed moderate success in school and had made some difference in the lives of those he treated while at St Mungo’s. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, and Draco held on to the satisfaction those truths gave him.

If he had to die, he may as well try to die happily. And though he had no idea what came after death, he was not afraid.

The airlock whooshed open, and Draco wearily opened his eyes. The lights were still dimmed.

“Stockell?” His voice was weak and slurred. It was half a miracle that he was still able to speak. Some patients lost that ability, too.

“No,” said Hermione. “It’s me.”

A rapid series of pings from the heart rate monitor betrayed him. Mercifully, Hermione silenced the noise with a flick of her wand. She stood over him and gently turned his head so that he faced her. Then she sat beside him. She kept one hand in her lap and took his hand with the other.

They were touching skin to skin.

In fact, she was wearing none of the required protective equipment he’d grown so used to seeing. Her hair was pulled back, but not forced into order, remaining curly and vivacious. There were still bags beneath her eyes – there normally were – but her clothes looked clean and wrinkle free. She smelled like citrus, like fresh Satsuma. Free from the medial garb, she looked more herself than she had in weeks. She looked beautiful; Draco drank in the sight of her, and his heart ached with lost opportunity.

But that did not change the facts. He tried to pull away. “You shouldn’ be ‘ere.”

“I had to see you,” she said, her grip on his hand remaining firm.

“You’re going to get it. You’re going to get… Sick.”

“I won’t,” she said with a quiet, incredulous chuckle. “I won’t get sick, because I’ve done it.”

Draco grimaced as much as his paralyzed muscles would allow. “Done wha’?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

“Found a cure.”

Draco stared at her for a moment, then shut his eyes, unable to face her.

“I used Muggle technology,” she continued. “I learned in the genetics lab at Guy’s and St Thomas’. I wanted to find biological differences between wizards and Muggles, but my mentors would’ve had me committed for that, so I lied and said I was interested in disease genetics. I worked with bacteria and viruses. Learned cell structures, modes of infection, symptoms, treatments. For the more famous diseases, like influenza, polio, and smallpox, I learned about vaccine development. Most of it was theoretical, but I was able to perform some hands-on techniques, like tissue culture, cloning, selective breeding, PCR, DNA sequencing…”

She paused and took a shaky breath. “I learned everything I needed to make a vaccine myself. I tried it with Collier’s, used magic to accelerate growth and testing. And it worked.” She laughed again, incredulous. “Draco, it worked.”

Bitter tears slipped from his closed eyes. “I don’ want it.”

She took a shaky breath and shifted in her seat. “What?”

“I don’t want it,” he repeated firmly, opening his eyes and looking at her to make certain she understood. “I don’t.”

Emotion flitted over her features, but Draco did not have the strength to give them names. He shut his eyes again, tired. He did not have long.

“Why?”

Draco thought for a moment that spanned two labored breaths. How could he explain it to someone who wasn’t dying? How could he explain that, somewhere over the past week, he had accepted his fate? He was going to die. Death was an integral part of life. Billions before him had done it, and billions more would follow. He was just one. One out of billions, insignificant and unimportant. On a global scale, his death would not even register.

But neither did he look for meaning globally. He looked at what he _had_ done, the lives that he had influenced over his brief twenty-five years. He had loved and hated. He had been a good friend to some and a rotten friend to others. He had made mistakes, but he’d done some good, too. Maybe it was enough to go on to something better than this world. Maybe it wasn’t, and he’d pass on to something worse. Or maybe this life was all he had, and he would go on to nothing at all.

Draco didn’t know, and the answer didn’t matter. There was no sense in planning for the unknown, no sense in worrying about it. He’d lived his life, made his decisions, and dealt with the consequences. He’d given his own life meaning. He was satisfied with what he’d done.

“I’m ready,” was all he said. “I’m ready to die.”

She removed her hand from his and was silent for several minutes. Draco opened his eyes and was surprised to find her staring at him calmly, without a single tear. It was the answer he needed and thought he would never get. It hurt to see her so detached and unemotional, but the pain was distant. Unimportant.

She was here. She was his friend. He got to see her one last time.

She took another shaky breath. “You may be ready to die,” she said, her voice tremulous and soft, “but I’m not ready to lose you.”

She moved quickly, drawing the syringe from her lap and uncapping its tip, and he felt nothing as she plunged it into the flesh of his arm. She depressed the plunger and yanked the needle out in one smooth motion. Draco could do little but stare at her bright eyes and heaving chest.

Sound returned to the heart rate monitor. His blood pounded through his veins more and more rapidly, turning the _ping_ s into one steady, sharp alarm as whatever she injected worked its way through his veins.

Draco gasped for air but couldn’t get it. His vision grew fuzzy around the edges.

Her cure hadn’t worked; he was dying.

Though his mind had accepted it, his body continued to fight, seizing but unmoving, trapped by the paralysis. His body had erupted, his organs were failing, and all Draco felt was agony.

The last thing he saw as the world faded to black was Hermione struggling against two guards, trying desperately to reach him.

The last thing he heard was her shouting his name.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The St Mungo's Administrative Center was nestled in a modest high rise on the outskirts of Muggle London. The building was brick and a bit decrepit-looking, especially when the weather was poor, which was often. The building beautification committee, composed of three dowdy women and a far-too-motivated new hire from the second floor (Regressive Insurance Sales, Inc. – clearly a dying agency) had attempted to plant flowers near the front entrance. Unfortunately, they had not considered the lack of sunlight, and their effort had resulted in shriveled, greenish-brown patches of depression. That was five years ago; the committee had not met since.

The St Mungo's administrators hadn't been happy to make the move. Their original location had been in Diagon Alley, the beating heart of the wizarding world, just a few streets down from Gringotts, Fortescue's, Honeydukes, and all the other distractions that make administrative work seem more like a worthwhile way to spend one's time. To have been pushed out by more profitable businesses such as joke shops, broom vendors, and pubs had not sat well, and the resulting sense of bitterness and resentment had yet to fade. All that could be said of their new location was that it was that it was well windowed, and even that wasn't much.

The building seemed to have taken on some of the less pleasant characteristics of its inhabitants. The building doors often became jammed and were difficult to open. The lift was slow and, as its doors closed with a low moan, Hermione Granger could not ignore the feeling of dread that settled in her chest.

She withdrew her wand, trying not to think of what awaited her as she prodded the space between the numbers '12' and '14'. The area lit up green and a bland, non-threatening voice asked her to state her name and business. She did so, and there was a brief pause before the lift began to rise. Hermione clasped her hands, closed her eyes, and waited. She thought of her question, of procuring the only piece of information she wanted, the only piece she needed.

 _Is he alive_?

The anticipation of the answer made her hot and cold at once, and an uncomfortable, almost painful shudder lanced through her.

The lift slowed to a halt and the doors slid open. Hermione took a breath and stepped into the reception area.

One way or another, it would all be over soon.

The receptionist recognized her and, with an unnecessary scowl, waved her down the hall to the last door on the left. Hermione walked the path without really looking, automatically closing the door as she entered the modest courtroom. She walked past the three rows of pews to the single chair that sat before a raised bench.

Hermione gave the chair a slightly sour look. Its poor design was intentional, she was sure. The wood base was shaped as if the carver hadn't the slightest concept of the anatomy of a human buttock. The back, with its unevenly spaced and occasionally protruding spindles, was an unyielding perpendicular. The armrests were both several inches too high and too wide for the average human, never mind her relatively petite frame.

She spelled the seat and back with a Cushioning Charm, which enabled her to sit in relative ease. She kept her hands folded in her lap to prevent her shoulders from elevating and demonstrating a tension that she neither felt nor cared to fake.

Almost immediately after she sat, the panel members filed in, and just as quickly, Hermione trained her eyes forward to follow the intricate grain of wood that made up their bench. Hermione thought forward was a rather neutral direction to stare, but the panel members – two witches and three wizards, all well over seventy years old – had made it clear, via a series of pursed lips and narrowed eyes, that this was not the case. One member, Hermione couldn't tell which, though she suspected it was one of the women, had even clucked in disapproval.

Not like it mattered anymore. This was the last day of her hearing. Sentencing day. A full week and a half after she had plunged the needle into Draco's arm and changed everything. A week and a half after she had been dragged from his room, screaming so loudly, horrified as his body stiffened and seized and… Died? Healed?

 _Is he alive_?

She wanted to shout it, but bit her tongue and continued to stare, following a set of swooping, swirling lines that reminded her of blood cells beneath a microscope, of a vomit being flushed away, of life seeping onto a bleached tile floor.

Healer Francis Conroy, the Director of Discipline, cleared his throat as the clock chimed nine.

" We have assembled here on Monday, November 28, 2005, for the sentencing of Ms Hermione Jean Granger regarding the events at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on Thursday, November 17, 2005. We have discussed your case most thoroughly, Ms Granger. We have spoken to your colleagues, your superiors, and to the witnesses, and we have reviewed your disciplinary history. Do you wish to address the panel before we begin the sentencing?"

 _Is he alive_?

"No, sir." It was not time yet. An opportunity, yes, but not the correct moment. She would know when it came. She would feel it, _had_ to feel it. She'd felt so little else since that final day.

One of the panel members huffed.

"Very well," Conroy continued. "On Thursday, November 17, you injected Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy, a patient and former resident of St Mungo's, with an experimental treatment for Collier's disease. You did this without performing safety trials, without the consent of Mr Malfoy's Attending Healer, Maurice Thomas Stockell, and without consent of the patient himself. These actions violate the St Mungo's ethical statute, your Hippocratic Oath, and Mr Malfoy's right to informed consent.

"These violations are not to be taken lightly, yet you have expressed no regret either before us or in your written testimony. We must therefore interpret your violation of these rules as willful and intentional. Ms Granger, we must consider you a likely repeat offender."

He paused for a moment to let the gravity of this sink in, then continued in a clear, authoritative voice. "A Healer ruled by his or her emotions cannot be trusted with the lives of others. Every patient deserves a clear mind and cool temperament, especially when the Healer's decisions can determine life and death. You have proven yourself incapable of objectivity under pressure. As such, you are dismissed, effectively immediately, from your residency position at St Mungo's. Your Junior Healer license is revoked, and you are barred for life from reapplication. Your days in Healing are through."

The words brushed over her like dead leaves on concrete: a faint rustle as they passed, a fleeting sensation of circumstances changing, and then nothing. Her insides, which should have been in an uproar after hearing that she could no longer do what she had devoted years of her life to perfecting, were quiet and still.

Another huff from the bench. Now was the time.

Hermione gathered herself and, with a shaky breath, looked up at the panel. She looked at each member in turn, then locked eyes with Conroy and said the lines she'd been practicing for days.

"I respect the panel's decision. But I must know, please: is he alive?"

There was a moment of uncertain silence before the woman at the far end of the bench snapped, "At the request of the Malfoy _estate_ , we are not at liberty to say."

That quickly, Hermione had her answer, and the world ceased turning. She sat back in the chair. The Cushioning Charm had vanished. The spindles pressed uncomfortably into her back, but she hardly noticed. Hardly cared.

"And on a personal note." Hermione started and lifted her eyes slowly, dazedly, back to the panel. Conroy's mouth continued to move, but the words his lips formed – disappointment, high expectations, optimistic – didn't register.

 _Estate_. The Malfoy _estate_.

Draco was dead.

 _Estate_.

Was Narcissa dead, too? Unable to live without her husband and son?

Had to be. _Estate_. It was not a term used lightly.

When Hermione next looked up, she was alone. The panel members had left, and she was free.

Free from what?

She rose slowly, and her legs did not feel like her own. They carried her to the door, which phantom hands pushed open. Sitting there, on a padded bench outside the courtroom, was Ginny Potter-Weasley.

She was up in a moment and at Hermione's side, her hand strong and reassuring as she clasped Hermione's arm. "I was wondering how long they were going to keep you. What happened?"

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, searching for words as the first seeds of her alternate reality – no, her _actual_ reality, the one where she had failed to keep the man she loved alive – began to root. Her knees wanted to buckle. Her palms began to sweat, her heart to race, her breaths to rasp.

And then Ginny squeezed her arm.

She could not break down now. Not here, in a public office. Not here, in front of Ginny. Because Hermione's was a grief no one should see. A grief she had to hide. Her grief was not the pretty kind, solved by a white handkerchief, a few pats on the back, and a platitude about life going on. What would happen – what _was_ happening – was absolutely animal, primal to its core. It was nature gone wrong, every sensor firing, every hormone flooding, every fluid rushing. It was pressure building in a capsule with only one, poorly capped outlet. To let it burst in front of others, when she had neither the desire nor ability to control it, or the magic that would doubtlessly accompany it, would be dangerous, potentially fatal.

Ginny's brow furrowed, and she frowned. "Never mind. It's too soon. Come on. Let's go home."

Maintaining her hold on Hermione's arm, Ginny led her away. With each step, Hermione traveled further from the weak dream she had been living – the one where Draco was alive and still a part of her world – and into her cold future. And with each step, as the pressure built and screamed, she tightened her control, reminding herself to breathe, counting the seconds between each inhale and finding a modicum of peace in her ability to control the pace.

Control. She had not lost it all. Not yet.

She had to survive the next few hours before she could allow herself to let go. A list: pretend for Ginny, drink a cup of tea, pretend for Ron, eat a biscuit. Believably claim exhaustion, usher her friends away with the promises of an early bedtime and a Floo call the next morning. Close the door. Shutter the windows. Ward the flat. Soundproof the flat. Stand with her wand in the middle of her living room.

Only then, when she was alone, would she allow the pressure building within her to escape. Only then would she allow herself to feel every ounce of pain her rejection must have caused him. Only then would she allow herself to think of the final peace she had stolen from him. Only then would she allow herself the freedom of a terrible and gruesome anguish.

Only then. Not one moment before.

Having regained the threads of her slipping control, Hermione worked her way down the list.

 _Pretend for Ginny_.

They were at her flat. Hermione hadn't even remembered being Apparated. She unlocked the door and mechanically stepped aside, allowing Ginny through.

 _Drink a cup of tea_.

No, that would be skipping a step. She could not leave a task half-done, and poorly, at that. She took a seat at the table, folding her hands before her, listening idly as Ginny chattered about Ron showing up with sympathy and where did she keep the biscuits?

It took her a moment too long. Ginny looked at her strangely, and Hermione attempted a smile that felt as forced as it surely looked. She answered with an accompanying vague wave to the cupboard next to where she kept the plates.

A knock sounded on the door. Ron, but too early. Her list… But the solution was simple. A re-ordering. Pretend for Ron, drink a cup of tea, eat a biscuit. All tasks still within her power.

She got up to answer the door, too focused on pretending for Ron that she ignored pretending for Ginny. They arrived there simultaneously, but Ginny moved faster and opened the door before Hermione could do more than stretch out her hand.

The list exploded. The ideas framed by letters and numbers tried to rearrange themselves, but a connection had dissolved and the outcome was nonsense, barely English, unintelligible, indecipherable, and – in the end – unimportant.

Because Hermione no longer needed a list. Because Hermione no longer needed to grieve.

Draco Malfoy stood at the threshold with his hands in his pockets and his fringe in his eyes. He looked thin and serious, but alive ( _so alive_!), and Hermione was sure she was dying because her sight went black and her legs no longer worked and she could hear every sound her body made, from the blood pounding through her heart to the hair raising on her skin.

There was a brief pressure on her arm, and the smell of Ginny brushing past her. There was a faint, "Oi, Ferret!" shouted from down the hall, and the sound of the door closing.

"Hermione?"

And with his voice, it all came back. In a rush that sent her reeling backwards, her vision returned and the cacophony in her head quieted to its normal buzz and thrum. Her chest heaved, her ribs expanding painfully as she gasped for air, and her stomach churned, threatening to revolt against her esophagus. It would have succeeded if she had consumed more than water and toast in the last twenty-four hours.

"Are you okay?"

The question – and what a question! – snapped into place another level of her slipped sanity, and she laughed, though it came out as a wheeze.

"I," she rasped, "am the very definition of _not okay_."

The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips, and Hermione burned its wry form into her memory. There was so much about him to remember, and though she knew no amount of time with him could ever be enough to capture it all, she tried very hard to succeed. His almond-shaped eyes, capricious with their color of grey and how much they shone. His Patrician nose above those wry, now neutral, now slightly frowning lips. The strong, angled cheekbones, which jutted out too sharply against his pale and stretched skin, creating spaces concave and tapering on his already narrow and pointed face.

"Why are you here?"

It was a fair question, though she didn't realize she had asked it until he replied, "I've come to serve you with papers." He pulled an official-looking sheath from robes that hung off him and begged to be filled with the muscle that sickness had stolen from him. He stepped toward her, offering her the packet, and her eyes alighted on his hands next.

Her vision blurred with tears. Though the scar was small, she could see where the intravenous needle had been. His hands were so thin now, his skin stretched tightly over his knuckles and wrist, the bones protruding so that she could almost determine their shape. His tapering fingers looked fragile, but they held the parchment steadily enough, so different from hers, which shook and barely supported the packet's modest weight.

"It's a restraining order," he explained. "My advocate's suggestion."

Hermione nodded automatically. The idea of being legally mandated to stay away from him was painful, but it was infinitely more bearable than the idea of him being dead. It made sense, as well. She had broken the law, treated him after he had removed his consent and refused her. In the eyes of the Ministry, and his lawyer, she was a threat to his life.

It was ironic, really, and the thought made her smile the slightest bit. She could appreciate the humor in it now.

"I will look these over tonight and send them to your advocate by owl tomorrow," she said quietly. "Unless you need them sooner?"

"Tomorrow is fine." He stared at her for a moment longer, his brow furrowed, like he was waiting for her to do something. But she did not move. Did not speak. All she had to do she held in her hands, and she had said everything she wanted to before she had broken his trust and saved his life. She would not assume he wanted to hear any of that again, or that he cared to spend more time with her than was necessary. He had achieved his purpose, and she would let him go.

But as he sighed and turned around, her mutinous, selfish heart beat against reason. Why wasn't she fighting for him? She had come this far – disrespecting his wishes, ruining her life – why not take the extra step, which would either sink the final nail into the coffin of their relationship or administer the shot of adrenaline that would temporarily revive it? Their lives had collided since they were children, and each time they were too misshapen to connect. But what if their shapes were finally correct? What if she was his complement as he was hers? Could she let her final opportunity to be with him pass? Could she live with herself, with the regret such a blunder would surely cause? If there was a time to act, to fight for him and what they could have, it was now.

But she had already fought for them, hadn't she? She had fought for their future and won, but his shape had changed because of it. Hers had remained the same. So it was no longer _their_ future, but _his_ and _hers_ , separate and distinct, and she had no recourse but to accept it.

These were the consequences. This was her life after grief, and she would bear it with a grin, because her grief was immaterial compared to his life.

So as he walked away, Hermione counted her breathing, dug her fingernails into her palms, and bit her tongue to keep from giving into her weakness and crying out for him to stay. Though she burned to touch him, to feel his arms and smell his skin and trace his scars and taste his breath, she didn't move, not even flinching when he turned to look at her one last time.

His eyes seared into her, and suddenly, so quickly that she could not help but startle, he swore and slammed his hand against the door.

"Damn it, Hermione! Why did you do it? Why did you save me?"

There was only one answer she could give, though she knew he would not want to hear it. But he had asked, and she had no right to keep him from the truth.

"I had to." Her voice shook with emotion she could no longer repress. "I love you."

He swore again and stalked toward her. "You're lying. You're lying!"

"I'm not." Her voice was a tenuous calm against the violence of his tone.

"Yes, you are," he said with a growl, "because if you loved me, you would have respected my wishes. I revoked your consent. I refused treatment. You had no right to be near me that day, let alone touch me!"

"I know that."

"You were supposed to accept it. You were supposed to let me die!"

"I couldn't."

"Since when has Healing been about the Healer?"

"Is it really so hard to believe?" Her voice shook a little more than she would have liked, and she could not fight the bitterness his incredulity caused.

He barked a laugh. "After sincerely pursuing you for six months and getting nothing out of it but sex? Yes, Hermione. It is hard to believe."

"Well, I'm sorry for that, but I'm telling you the truth."

"But not the whole truth," he said, pointing an accusing finger at her chest. "You threw away your _life_ for me, and that doesn't happen with a love that just springs up out of nowhere."

"Draco…"

"No, Hermione! I have been through hell and back because of what _you_ did, and I deserve answers. I deserve the truth! So when did it start? When did your supposed _love_ for me begin?"

"Hippocrates' School," she snapped, her eyes flashing. His anger had ignited her own, and the pressure that had built up over his death had not had a chance to dissipate. It was coming out now, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. "I've loved you since Hippocrates' School, and I've never stopped."

" _Hippocrates' School_?" he repeated incredulously. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"We were splitting up."

"You didn't say anything because you were afraid it was going to be _difficult_?"

"I _knew_ it would be."

"You were barely across London. It wouldn't even have been long distance!"

"Distance wasn't the issue!" she yelled. "Don't you remember how it was when we first started? We barely had the time to owl one another, let alone attempt to date! A relationship like that would've suffocated before it even had a chance to breathe."

"What about Mungo's, then? Plenty of time to let it breathe there!"

"By then, it was clear that you had moved on."

"Moved on?"

"Yes, and I didn't want to get hurt!"

"Moved _on_?" Draco repeated, stunned. "Hermione, I was mad for you. I asked you out once a week, at least. I was practically begging you for a date!"

"I thought –"

"We were _shagging_! For Merlin's bloody sake, how in the world could it have seemed like I had moved on?"

Every jealous, spiteful thought Hermione had ever had melted, boiled, and burned up inside her, and she spat the truth like venom: "Because every fucking time you saw Theresa, you could barely keep your hands to yourself or your eyes off her arse!"

That gave him pause, and Hermione watched triumphantly as Draco tried to regain his footing, failing as he spluttered, " _What_?"

"Theresa," Hermione repeated, snarling around the word. "The curvy witch you flirted with whenever she was within earshot. I thought I was imagining it, but all those looks you exchanged… The way she'd touch you… How she swept the hair out of your eyes… Your laughter whenever she attempted something resembling wit… I saw _everything_ , Draco. I noticed _everything_. I knew you two had… _Connected_."

"You're barking," he said faintly. "Positively barking. Theresa and I, that was never… She wasn't… She was _nothing_ to me. _Is_ nothing. You couldn't possibly have thought –"

"What was I supposed to think?" Hermione interrupted bitterly. "That you were just doing it to get a rise out of me?" Patches of pink suddenly appeared on Draco's cheeks, and Hermione sneered. "Stumbled upon the truth, have I? Well, it worked too well. I wasn't going to commit to anything more than sex with you when your interests were obviously elsewhere. I'm not a fool."

"Why did you ever agree to that in the first place if you thought we were involved?"

"You knew you didn't want to work in Midwifery, but you did rounds there anyway."

"That's completely different!"

"It's exactly the same! Midwifery wasn't in your future, but you wanted the experience. It can't be so unbelievable that I wanted the same with you."

It took him a moment to process the information, and when he next spoke, it was slowly, as if he were still piecing it together. "So when you gave me that injection, you thought I wasn't interested in you? That I didn't love –"

"I _knew_. You had made your feelings abundantly clear by then," she said, remembering too well their row in his room. He shifted uncomfortably, clearly sharing the memory. "I knew we didn't have a future together, just like I knew the consequences I'd face whether or not the vaccine worked. I threw away everything I had – my time, my career, my reputation, everything – to give you a chance. And you lived, and I'm ruined, but I don't care because you were worth it. I don't care that I disrespected your wishes and violated every ethical law I can think of. I'd rather sign that restraining order and never see you again, and have that be your choice, than have allowed you to be taken from me by a virus. I would rather live knowing you hate me than live without you at all."

"You really mean it," he said quietly. She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

"You wanted the truth."

"So I did." He was silent for a minute, allowing the atmosphere between them to settle. Hermione took several breaths, feeling better but for the texture of the restraining order against her fingers. She dropped it on the table and felt an icy hand compress her heart. She looked away from it, away from him, and tried to remain composed. She would deal with it when he left. It may take a bottle of wine and a box of tissues, but she would get through it.

"Your sentencing was today, wasn't it?"

Just like that, her tears reappeared. He always had known what not to say. However, she was too drained to start another fight. "Yes," she said with a small sigh. "It was."

"Mother received an owl." She glared at him; if he knew, why had he asked? She bit her tongue. "Sacked, banned for life… They were harsh on you."

"Yes, they were." Her voice was brittle. "I'd be surprised if Mungo's even consents to treat me. Still, it was," she paused, searching for the word, "fair."

Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise and bobbed his head in uncertain agreement. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then he said, "I've been given a position there."

Her happiness for him was genuine. A position at St Mungo's had been Draco's goal since they started Hippocrates' School. Still, she could not be sure that her smile was completely devoid of sadness. She had wanted a position there, too, and the wound caused by her lifelong ban was raw. "Congratulations. They would've been foolish not to offer it."

"And Reyes accepted my proposal. I'll be his next apprentice."

The ache in her chest deepened, but she smiled still wider. "That's fantastic. He'll be a wonderful master to you, I'm sure."

"I've been approached for a book deal, too."

Hermione really tried not to roll her eyes, but was afraid her control may have slipped when she saw Draco's lips twitch into a gentle smirk.

"Wonderful." Her voice was too wooden, but she could not soften it. "Everything is really falling to place for you."

"I suppose," he said with a sigh, and Hermione dropped her smile. Before she could say something she would regret, Draco continued casually. "It's a pity, though, that they've banned you from Healing. That vaccine could have made you millions."

"It could have _saved_ millions," she corrected. She tried not to think about it more than she had to. Whyte would have confiscated her notebook shortly after her arrest. If she burned it before realizing Draco had survived, then the cure for Collier's existed only one place: Hermione's head.

But even there, the information was about as useful as a leash on a Skrewt. Draco had been so close to death, and she had been out of her mind with desperation. She hadn't been sleeping, hadn't been eating, and she'd had several trials running simultaneously. She remembered bits from each, but couldn't recall the exact formulation that had cured him. Even if she could obtain the proper equipment and the correct permits, a working vaccine was still several experiments away.

If Whyte _had_ realized what her notebook contained, then she had undoubtedly passed it off to another researcher by now. A worm of anger crawled up her spine: no one at St Mungo's had the background that she did, and the thought of them mangling her work, botching the science she had worked so hard to perfect… She shuddered. When she looked up, she was surprised to find Draco staring at her appraisingly.

"It would be another year, at least, before your vaccine could be marketed to the public, wouldn't you say?" he asked lightly.

"Probably that, if not longer. I used your cells for testing and my cells for formulation. The vaccine as it stands could be specific to just you and me."

"Therefore making anything that St Mungo's puts out completely useless."

The idea was vaguely satisfying. It would take them some time to figure that out. "Yes, but I don't see how this is relevant. It's not like they could call me in to consult."

"True," Draco ceded. "So what will you do instead?"

"Government work, I suppose." Draco huffed a small laugh. Hermione bristled, illogically defensive. "They don't seem picky about hiring people with tainted reputations."

"You'll be wasted there, you know." And she did know, but it was too soon to say it aloud. "What if you had your notebook back?"

Hermione shook her head. "It's no use thinking about. My research has either been confiscated or burned."

"But what if it wasn't?"

With a twist of his wrist, Draco pulled her black-and-white speckled composition book out of the void and offered it to her. Her mouth dropped and she reached out to take it reverently, as if it were a first edition of Hogwarts: A History.

"How did you get this?" she asked weakly.

"That is for the Malfoy legal team to decide. You have it now. Next, you have to decide what you'll do with it."

She sat down slowly, feeling lightheaded. Draco's gift felt like a poisoned carrot dangled before her starving mouth. Even though she knew it was laced with arsenic, she was sorely tempted to take a bite. But she wouldn't. When Draco left, after she signed the restraining order, she would burn the notebook, perhaps on her balcony in the company of another bottle of wine. If she were to heal herself, she could not afford the false hope, the nostalgia, or the luxury of what might have been. For now, though, she ran her hands over the cover, memorizing its texture and reflecting, one last time, on everything she could have done.

"If I may offer a suggestion," Draco said, interrupting her reverie. "Mother and I are having a board meeting in a few hours. You're welcome to attend. I see that you're already dressed – that shows good initiative. Maybe we should grab a bite first, though. You look like you haven't eaten in days."

She looked from the notebook to him, her mind blank. He looked at her expectantly, and her feeling of stupidity grew. She felt as if a synapse had failed to fire. "Board meeting?"

Draco sighed and, with a smile, sat down next to her. He took her free hand in both of his; his skin was warm and dry. "Hermione," he began with some gravitas, "I've decided to leave St Mungo's."

Her faulty synapse once again failed to fire, and she gaped at him. " _What_? Draco, are you mad?"

"Well, it's awfully dangerous, isn't it, working in that kind of environment? I nearly lost my life due to a glaring safety oversight. No one else should have to know that feeling. And if we're going to keep Healers safe, we need to devote some serious resources to the task. Our equipment needs to evolve just as quickly as our diseases. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly. "Of course, but I don't see –"

"Yet, there's just as much a need for reactive measures as for proactive measures, which is where you come in, my dear." A small, confusing smile played over his lips, as if he were in on a joke that she had not yet been told. "You, Hermione, are the only person in all of Healing who has successfully cured the Collier's Virus. The information to do so again is here," he tapped her notebook with his forefinger, "and here." He tapped her gently on the temple. "You are in an exceptionally lucrative position."

"But un-hirable," she rebutted. "I can't even become a certified Healer."

"I'm not looking for a Healer," he said with a gentle smile. His eyes sparkled, and suddenly, Hermione caught on to the joke.

She tried to draw her hand away, but he held her fast. "You can't be serious."

"Why not? Not only are you a good deal further along in your research than any other Healer on the planet, but you're brilliant to boot. You have broad experiences, you can integrate Muggle and magical technology to great effect, and you're good under pressure. You understand regulations and, aside from a minor ethical violation that I am willing to overlook, you have a stellar reputation for honest work."

"You want me to work for you?"

"No," he said, his smile widening. "I want you to work _with_ me. We'll be partners. We'll have equal stock in the company, a comfortable corner office, so long as you don't mind sharing it with me, and a generous yearly salary. Also, global reach and a way to make a difference to millions of people. All the philanthropy you want. I know how important that is to you," he finished tenderly.

"I still… I don't think I understand. I thought… I thought you hated me," she finished in a small voice.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, clearing away what remained of her tears. "Hermione, you saved my life. I could never hate you for that."

It wasn't possible. Couldn't be. And yet… "All this… The restraining order…"

"A bluff," he said with an embarrassed sort of smile. He flipped open the pages; each was blank. "Mother was against it, but I needed to gauge your reactions. I had to be sure of you. Now, I am." He paused and smiled softly at her. It was like seeing sunshine after a year of darkness. "You love me, Hermione."

Her heart jumped into a mad staccato. Hearing those words, seeing his smile, knowing that he understood, that he forgave… She could not find the breath to do more than whisper, "Yes."

"And I love you."

His tone was so final, so sure, that suddenly, there was nothing more to be said. Hermione threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck and sobbing with joy as he tangled his hands in her hair, whispering promises, keeping her together as she came undone, vulnerable and wretchedly human in his arms, but at peace and grateful – above all, grateful - for the new life they had been given. Whatever came next, she would not waste it. She would not take a single moment, a single breath, for granted.

She would never let him go again.

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2012 Treasured Tropes challenge over at Hawthorn and Vine from UnseenLibrarian's prompt: Both Draco and Hermione are Junior Healers, and have a fierce competition going on to see which of them is better than the other. A mysterious, almost-always-fatal ailment has appeared in the wizarding world, and each of them take different approaches to finding a cure. When one of them comes down sick with the very same disease they are trying to cure, it falls to the healthy co-worker to Heal the sick one.


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